


The Elia x Arthur Drabbles

by grumkin_snark



Series: ficlets and one-shots [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-02-07 02:07:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 24,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12831045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: A collection of short prompt responses focused on Elia x Arthur.





	1. sharing a dance at elia's wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a number meme.
> 
> Anon asked: 14, 17 arthur x elia

> _14\. first kiss_  
>  _17\. last dance_

She remembers how he was when they were younger, always shy even after he’d grown tall and handsome. She remembers the festivities that had been held on the tenth anniversary of her mother’s reign, how they’d all indulged a bit too much in wine, for they were four-and-ten and only just allowed the drink. She remembers the way Arthur had looked that night, the way the moonlight glinted off the dark waves of his hair, how nervous he’d been right before he kissed her. She remembers how the air smelled, of magnolias and orange trees and date palms. She remembers how profusely he’d apologized, and she remembers how eagerly she’d shut him up with a kiss of her own. She remembers how nothing had been the same since. She remembers  _them_.

Now…she doesn’t know either of them now. She doesn’t know herself, and she doesn’t know the man in front of her. She doesn’t know this  _misery_.

“Do you remember the last time I danced with you?” he asks.

“Doran and Mellario’s wedding.” Nigh on seven years ago that had been, and she recalls it clear as day. He’d been full of optimism and adventure back then, not like now, not when his eyes are haunted with the things they’ve seen.

“Do you remember what I told you that night?”

 _How could I forget?_  “Arthur, quiet.” There are more guests than she can count grouped in the throne room, and almost all of them with a working set of ears. If they were still children, it wouldn’t make any difference, but here…

“Elia.”

Every step is painful, every  _breath_  is painful. In the sight of gods and men, she has been proclaimed Rhaegar Targaryen’s wife, and she wishes more than anything it weren’t so. Arthur’s eyes are overbright with drink; she wonders how he’d managed that under the White Bull’s watchful gaze. Or perhaps the old man had noticed after all, perhaps Arthur had done it on purpose, perhaps he thinks censure will spare him the task of standing outside the door tonight as she’s bedded. If only  _she_  could be spared.

She looks up at him. “You said that so long as the world still turned, you would love me.”

“I meant it.”

“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Now, it’s treason.”

 _You could have stopped this_ , she thinks viciously.  _If you wanted to, you could have stopped the wedding. You could have taken me somewhere, done something, anything. You could have spared us both the agony._

The courtiers applaud as the tune draws to a close, but all Elia hears is a key locking her gilded cage.


	2. queen regent elia confronts arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: I wish you would write a conversation between queen regent Elia and a returning Arthur over the abduction, Aerys threatening Elia, & the Tower of Joy being in Dorne. Assume Rhaegar and Robert are dead.

She’s put this off long enough, and she’s commanded herself to be calm and detached, but it doesn’t hurt any less when he’s escorted into the throne room. Without his Kingsguard armor and his sword, he seems… _less_. She hadn’t wanted to put him in the black cells, but failing that she hadn’t known what to do with him either; Doran had suggested confining him to a room, and so she had.

She straightens her posture on the throne, trying to ignore how uncomfortable it is. Aegon the Conqueror had constructed it to be so—and had succeeded. Arthur only glances at her briefly before going to one knee.

“I presume you know why you are here,” she says without preamble. “I have filled six Kingsguard positions, but the seventh…”

Oberyn had pressed her to strip Arthur of his white cloak, and Elia had agreed his transgressions merited at least that, yet she hasn’t brought herself to do it. “I submit myself to your judgment.”

For some reason, his obeisance irritates her. Since they were children, he’d never shied away from voicing his opinions, and that hadn’t changed when she became Rhaegar’s wife either. For all that she’d planned on being levelheaded, she realizes that what she truly wants is to  _argue_. Even the remaining rebels had been courteous enough, not to mention the sycophantic loyalists.

She turned to the guards at the doors and commands, “Leave us.” They hesitate, but one glare from her has them doing as she says. Once the heavy doors bang shut, Elia descends from the throne and stands in front of him. “Oh, for gods’ sakes, get up. The time for standing on ceremony is over.”

He looks up at her and slowly gets to his feet, for once unsure. “What is it you wish of me?”

“I want your  _head_ ,” she snarls. “There are two rebel soldiers on my son’s Kingsguard now, and do you know why? Because they swore an oath to their leader, and they saw it through to the end. But you?” Her hands clench into fists at her sides. “My uncle gave you your knighthood, my mother opened our home to you. You swore yourself forever to House Martell, and at the first opportunity you betray us. Rhaegar may have started all this, but you were right there by his side. What do I wish of you? I wish to hear one reason why I shouldn’t let Oberyn poison your drink the way he longs to.”

There is true shame in the violet eyes she knows so well, but it means little to her now. “I have no reasons,” he says after a moment. “All you say is true.”

She knows she shouldn’t, she knows it undermines her authority, but the frustration takes over. With a war’s worth of anger, she cracks her hand across his face. He looks hurt, but not particularly surprised.

“Then  _why_?” she hisses. Hot tears spring to her eyes, much to her chagrin. “What did I ever do to you? We have been friends our entire lives, Arthur, or I  _thought_  we were. And once we were almost—”

_Once we were almost more than that._

She can plainly see he too remembers that one night so long ago, the one they’d never talked about, but at the very least he seems to know now is not the time. “You did nothing.”

“So explain it to me!” Her voice echoes in the cavernous throne room. “Was it Rhaegar’s bloody prophecy? Is that it? You believe that nonsense?”

“No, I don’t. I…I feared for the Lady Lyanna. I feared what Rhaegar might do if it came down to it.”

Elia recoils. “She entranced you, too? Rhaegar wasn’t bad enough, you lusted after her as well?”

“Seven hells, what do you take me for?” he snaps.  _Finally_ , she thinks.  _Maybe there is blood in his veins after all._

“Well, some job you did protecting her. Pregnant and dead, that’s how she ended up.”

“I didn’t—I was away retrieving supplies when Rhaegar got her with child,” he says. “By the time I returned, there was nothing to be done.”

“And what about us?” she demands. “What about me? What about Rhaenys, about Aegon? We were, what, acceptable losses?”

“ _No_. I thought you’d be safe, I never expected—”

“You knew what Aerys was capable of! How could you have not expected it?”

“What do you want me to say? That I regret what I did? Of course I regret it. That I should have done things differently? Yes, I should have. And I’ll spend the rest of my days trying to atone for that. If it is my life you want, I will walk to the headman’s block myself. Is that what you want?”

 _Is it?_ It would satisfy Oberyn, to be sure, and there would be a certain catharsis in it for her, too. But does she truly  _want_  him dead? She doesn’t know. Seven  _hells_ , she doesn’t know. She turns away from him and shuts her eyes, praying for clarity. This should be easy, this decision. He’d committed treason, to the crown and to her, and there is only one acceptable punishment for such a crime.  _Please_ , she begs the gods,  _tell me how to proceed._

“Elia.” His hand brushes her shoulder; barely, as though he’s half-afraid she’ll pull out a dagger and slash his throat right here and now.

“It’s  _Your Grace_ ,” she snaps, whirling back around. “And don’t touch me. Don’t you  _dare_.”

He holds up his hands in supplication. “I’m sorry.”

He looks utterly defeated, utterly  _lost_ , much like she feels. She lets out a breath and murmurs, “How could I ever trust you? How could I entrust my children to you when you left us to the Mad King’s whims?”

“I do not ask for your forgiveness.”

She knows what Mother would do. Exile, or imprisonment at the least. But Father…

“I won’t kill you,” she says finally. “Nor keep you in a cell. For Ash, not for you.”

“And the Kingsguard?”

“I don’t know,” she answers. “Be grateful your heart still beats.”

“I can assure you, my queen, it does.”


	3. escaping to norvos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: can you do a prompt where elia is happy & safe in the free cities with her babies (maybe w/ arthur too) ? i just want her to be happy
> 
> Another anon asked: I love your answer to Elia & Arthur escaping to Essos. Can I get a happily ever after in Norvos with Dany & Viserys too?

She hadn’t known what to make of this place when they’d first arrived as bedraggled refugees. It’s her good-sister’s home, yet she hadn’t learned much about Mellario’s past before she herself was whisked off to be wed to Rhaegar and even less about her family. They had been six coming to plead at the gates of Norvos, hoping and praying that Mellario’s name would be enough. She couldn’t send a letter telling her family where they were, she couldn’t put them in danger, but if not Norvos, then Elia had had no clue where they could go. She’d known Oberyn was somewhere in Essos, but had no way of contacting him, and even Arthur had only been so far as Tyrosh to put down a short-lived fracas on Aerys’s command.

Gods, that seems like another life now. It  _was_  another life.

She stands on the balcony and smiles as the cool mountain breeze rustles her skirts, Norvos’s bells clanging in the distance. It’s still chillier than she’d like, it’s certainly no Sunspear, and working as a seamstress is not something she’d ever thought she’d be doing, but she’s  _free_.

She feels him slip up behind her, and so it’s no surprise when his arms come around her waist. He doesn’t say anything, just lets them linger in silence to watch the sunrise. She does bring him down for a kiss though, chaste but with the promise of more later, and just as he’s sliding his hands up her blouse, they hear the patter of feet across the hall.

“The children are awake,” Elia laughs. Arthur makes a petulant sound of protest and reaches for her again, but she swats him away. “We’re going to traumatize them.  _Again_.”

“The door’s barred.”

_“Arthur.”_

“Oh, very well. You can make it up to me tonight then.”

Elia scowls. “What am I, your courtesan?”

“I never said I wouldn’t  _reciprocate_.”

His grin is so salacious that she feels her body flush. She has half a mind to give in, to take what they can get before they’re interrupted, but then she remembers which day it is. “Dany turns six today.”

“I know. Hard to believe we’ve been here this long,” says Arthur. “Do you miss home?”

“In a way. I miss my brothers, and the weather, but…” She thinks of little effervescent Daenerys, of Rhaenys who never leaves Dany’s side, of Aegon and his books, of Viserys whose nightmares have finally begun to recede, of the view outside her window and the friends she’s made here. She thinks of Arthur, who had for two years been nothing but a protector, until one night when they'd decided not to deny themselves any longer. “But this is home, too. Maybe one day we can return to Dorne, but I think we’ve made a good life here, don’t you? The children are happy.”

“And you?” Arthur asks. “Are you happy?”

She tilts her head up to look at him. Despite the years that have elapsed, he looks younger than he ever did in Aerys’s service, and she wonders if the same has happened to her. Norvos is colder than Dragonstone, and the air is thinner, yet she feels healthier here than she did on that island trapped in a marriage she never wanted.

She kisses him softly, slowly, and decides that’s answer enough.


	4. confrontation at harrenhal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: i was wondering if you could write a canon-compliant tourney of harrenhal (possible aftermath) fic b/w arthur and elia. you just write the pairing so well it always leaves me with feels. thank you for ur work. :)
> 
> Another anon asked: can we have a fic where Arthur tries to talk with Elia after Harrenhal but she tells him he preferred white cloak over her just like Rhaegar or idk she can say anything for angst. I love to see my ships sad.
> 
> Another anon asked: i love your elia x arthur fics, i was wondering if you could do one after the tourney of harrenhal? canon where rhaegar wins. so we can pretend it actually happened.

The feast following the final joust is torture. Pretending she doesn’t hear the whispers, the snickers, pretending she hasn’t just been humiliated in front of half the realm, pretending she can still hold her head high when all she feels is burning rage, burning disgrace. She has to sit on the dais beside Rhaegar like a sweet little wife, a meek mouse who accepts it all without complaint. She doesn’t know how many glasses of wine she’s consumed, only that they’re not enough to make her forget. The very opposite, in fact; it seems the more she drinks, the angrier she gets. Only Ashara’s hand gripping hers keeps her from tearing into Rhaegar right in the middle of the dining hall.

And then finally,  _finally_ , Lord Whent draws it to a close and dismisses them all. Rhaegar at least has the sense to not insist on accompanying her and her ladies to their rooms, but he does command Arthur to. It’s tolerable when she has her ladies about her, but when they’ve all broken off to their chambers, it’s just the two of them, and the silence becomes stifling, the long halls endless. Most of her fury is at Rhaegar, but there is more than a healthy amount reserved for Arthur. She feels it boiling inside her, threatening to burst.

She manages to hold it in until they reach her doors, and then—

“I hope you have a good night, princess.”

And that does it.

“A  _good night_?” she hisses. “You expect me to have a  _good night_  after what Rhaegar did? After what  _you_  did?”

Arthur frowns. “What  _I_  did?”

“You  _let_  Rhaegar win. You’re a better jouster than him by half, and you threw the match. You must have known what he intended to do, and you let him crown that bloody northern girl anyway. I’ve known you to be many things, but  _cruel_  was not one of them. Not until today.”

“I didn’t know that was his intent,” he says. “Rhaegar unmasked Lady Lyanna as the mystery knight and said he wanted to honor her gallantry. I thought he meant gold or a personal commendation or a blessing for her betrothal, I never thought it would be this.” His eyes narrow. “Do you think I  _wanted_  this disaster?”

“You’re Rhaegar’s best friend, everyone knows how loyal you are to him. What else am I supposed to think?”

Arthur’s laugh is one of self-deprecation, devoid of mirth. “Gods, you have no idea, do you?”

“No idea about  _what_?”

Arthur’s moment of hesitation is all the warning she gets before he grabs her by the waist and kisses her, hard and careless. It takes any hope of breath from her, and when he pulls away, all she can do is stare. She’d  _never_  expected—not in a  _million years—_ not  _Arthur_ , of all people. He lets go but doesn’t back away, and for the first time since they were children, she senses the daring man he used to be, before the white cloak, before vows, before kings and princes.

Her lips burn where his had touched them. “What was that?”

“It’s why I couldn’t have let him do that to you if I had known. For respect, too, but also...well, that.”

“You realize what you’ve just done is treason? I’m your prince’s wife.”

Arthur scoffs. “He didn’t seem concerned with that this afternoon.”

“That doesn’t make it  _right_.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

“If I scream, you’re as good as dead.”

“Are you going to scream?”

It’s the wine, she tells herself later, the wine and the desire for revenge, yet right now revenge isn’t all she desires. Urged by Rhaegar’s indecency and Arthur’s confession she kisses him, as harshly as he had, and without a word they stumble backwards into her room, barring the door behind them.

She’s certain she’d imagined everything when she rouses the next morning, except she aches in a way she never has before, and she  _remembers_. Not with clarity, it’s all a blur, but she remembers the rush of lust, the thrill of being  _illicit_ , of letting herself be reckless for once, the way his eyes had held the passion Rhaegar’s lacked.

Oberyn had always said that tourneys are free of sin, that what occurs there need never leave the grounds, and so she tells herself that’s exactly what this was. Being away from the confines of Dragonstone and the Red Keep was what had caused Arthur to kiss her and caused her to take him into her bed, nothing more. 

And after tonight when the tourney concludes, there would be no reason to address what had happened, and certainly it would not happen again.

Really.


	5. queen regent elia ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: I loved the Arthur Dayne/Elia fic [where Elia slaps him for betraying her](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12831045/chapters/29295084). It honestly made me so happy. May I make a little request that you continue it please? It just so good and I want more!

“ _Surely_  this cannot be all.” It’s her third read-through of this grievance, and she’s still having a difficult time trusting her own eyes. “You’re squabbling over  _one chicken_?”

She tosses the page aside and rubs her tired eyes. She hadn’t been able to sleep and so wanted to make some progress on the never-ending list of complaints that the people of King’s Landing find worthy to cross her table, and now she is sorely regretting that decision. As she stretches, she realizes too that her mother may have been right about maintaining proper posture; her neck aches something fierce from being bent over for so long. She’d have to see the maester for it in the morning.

She jumps when there comes a soft knock at the door. Who could possibly be disturbing her this late? She considers reaching for the paperweight, and then she recognizes the visitor.

“Arthur,” she exhales. “You startled me.”

“I saw the light,” he says. “Are you well?”

He must have had a restless night too, for she notices he’s bereft of a weapon and his hair is an utter mess. “Yes, well enough. I’m trying to sort through these grievances.” She brandishes the paper she’d been looking at, to gain some validation. “I am queen regent of the Seven Kingdoms and I am asked to make a judgment on  _this_.”

Arthur’s frown deepens the further he reads, and then he flips the paper over as if hoping there’s more. “Just...just give one of them coin enough to buy another chicken, I guess.”

Elia had come to the same decision, but warns, “If they return to complain about  _who_  got the coin from the treasury, I’m sending you to deal with them. The smallfolk love you, surely they’d—” She curses as a muscle in her neck spasms, about at her wits’ end.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, concerned.

“It’s a crick, nothing more,” she answers. “The maester will see to it in a few hours.”

He starts to move around the side of her desk, and she flinches away. “What are you doing?”

“I only want—can’t you pretend for a moment that you don’t hate me? I’m trying to help.”

She watches warily as he walks behind her, and stiffens when she feels his hands settle on her shoulders. Hearing no objection, he starts easing the knots out of her muscles, smoothing the pains out of her neck, and she has to bite her lip against a very much involuntary moan.

“It’s about time I repaid the favor,” he explains.

“You’ve got a long way to go before that’s repaid.”

She used to do this for him, for Oberyn, for several of the boys back when they were young, after sparring sessions that left them especially tense. A shred of a memory comes back to her, a day when they couldn’t have been more than three-and-ten and he’d told her she should make this her trade. They’d both dissolved in laughter afterwards at the face her mother would have made if she heard such a thing.

She thought she’d forgotten that.

Swallowing her pride, she says, “I’m sorry. This does help, thank you.”

“Did I mishear?” he asks. “Was that an apology?”

She throws a glare over her shoulder. “Treasure it. You won’t get another.” The silence that follows is oddly comfortable, given everything that had happened. She lets herself relax into his touch, allowing them both this one reprieve. “My ire won’t last forever,” she says quietly. His motions stutter for a moment before resuming. “Mayhaps—mayhaps some of it comes from not being able to yell at a dead man the way I wish I could, so you’re the next best target. And I do know you’re trying to repent. The High Septon tells me you spend time at the sept.”

“He has a loose tongue,” Arthur grumbles. “Your ire is warranted. Forgiveness would be more than I deserve, Elia. Your Grace, I mean.”

“Elia will suffice,” she says, “when not at court. There are so few people who say my name these days, I’ve begun to forget what it is.”

“Elia, then.” Her name is almost... _reverent_  on his lips, and it sends through her an unexpected shiver. His fingertips brush her jaw so faintly she can’t tell whether he’d meant to do it. “You’ll be a good queen. You already are.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” she says. “The courtiers like me even less as a queen than they did as a princess. I can sense their disdain, no matter how flawless they think they are at concealing it. I wish I had my mother’s courage.”

“You sold yourself short when we were children, too. It’s a vice in you.”

“Yes, well. It’s difficult to hold myself in high esteem when no one else does. I am not so confident as Ashara, nor you.”

“Me?” he asks. “Hardly. Until the Smiling Knight was done with, I felt I would never oust the Brotherhood. Even afterwards, I was afraid I’d die from the wound I took, that my greatest victory would be overshadowed by a fool’s death.”

“It wouldn’t have been  _foolish_.”

She remembers with all-too-perfect clarity the injury Simon Toyne had dealt him, a blade to the thigh that had come within a breath of slicing through an artery, which even the maester had had his doubts of survival. He’d spent a week in a haze of milk of the poppy. But he  _had_  recovered, with what Ashara tells her is an ugly scar that will never fade. She supposes many ladies would find it quite dashing, though, and abruptly wonders whether any had seen it.

She still hasn’t decided whether to fully give him back his position on the Kingsguard—but she hasn’t given it away, either—and so strictly speaking his vows are suspended, too. If he so chose, he could bed any maiden he wished. The notion is discomfiting, but  _why_  she doesn’t know. What does it matter if he beds anyone, or whom?

 _It’s just been a long time_ , she convinces herself,  _and almost all of the men of the court are old, wed, or far from handsome. He is merely a change of scenery._

“You think very loudly,” he comments. “Care to share?”

“No,” she says instantly. He starts to move further down her back, but it’s too much. It reminds her that regardless of his skill with working out the knots in her muscles, she  _is_  still irate with him and she  _does_  still resent the part he’d played in the war. “Don’t.”

Arthur removes his hands. The action takes with it the warmth and relief she’d enjoyed. “I meant no distress.”

She stands and faces him, crossing her arms over her chest in a flimsy measure of defense. “I appreciate your assistance and your counsel, but I think it’s past time for you to leave,” she says. “It’s...too soon.”

“As you wish.”

He gives her a respectful bow and obeys her request, but—very much against her will—her hand darts out and grasps his wrist. “I don’t hate you, Arthur. I'm not sure I ever could. We...we’ve been through much, you and I.”

“Aye, we have.” He brings her hand to his lips and presses a kiss to it. “I hope sleep will no longer elude you.”

She manages a flicker of a smile, but as soon as he closes the door behind him, she thinks,  _No, sleep will not come this night._


	6. "it never gets easier."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a number meme.
> 
> Anon asked: 15, 32 for Arthur x Elia

> _15. “I miss you.”  
>  _ _32. “It never gets easier.”_

She thought she’d never see him again. He’d joined the Kingsguard and her betrothal trip had failed, and she thought that would be the end of it. Perhaps they’d cross paths one day, at a tourney or a coronation, but otherwise who they were to one another would fade away in time.

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

They meet at Lord Robert’s tourney first, the day her betrothal is announced to the realm. Her only vindication is that there’s the same raw pain in his eyes as she feels in her own heart, that she doesn’t suffer alone. That he’s moved on no more than she has.

He pulls her into an alcove after the feast when everyone’s too drunk to notice, leans his forehead against hers. “Don’t do this,” she whispers, even as she longs to touch him. It’s been five years, five long years, and for as angry with him as she still is for leaving, more than anything she  _wants_  him.

“I miss you.”

“You  _can’t_  miss me. It’s far too late for that.”

He doesn’t say anything, but she sees the dangerous hint of challenge in the set of his jaw.  _You were mine first_ , it seems to mean,  _and I was yours._

It doesn’t get any better after her marriage. She doesn’t even get the distraction of Rhaella, Viserys, and the bustle of King’s Landing, for Rhaegar whisks them off to Dragonstone. She is grateful she does not have to suffer Aerys’s rages and lechery, but being here is its own special kind of torture. The times Rhaegar goes off to Summerhall are nearly unbearable. It would take no effort at all to slip out of her room and into his, to finally quench the burning heat inside her.

“Is this how it’s going to be until the end of our days?” she asks him one night. She’s so close, if only she moved an inch to the left, she could feel his lips on hers for the first time in years.

“It has to be.”

“When does it get easier?” Through her bedgown she can feel the heat of his hands on her waist and thinks,  _Just a little lower._

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe never.”

 _Never._ The very thought makes her ill. How could she go through a lifetime of this? Yet how could she  _not_? The times he’s gone are even more agonizing than when he’s not. He’s her poison, and her antidote, the best part of her, and the worst.

Her rise, and her downfall.


	7. spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a word meme.
> 
> Anon asked: Spring + Elia x Arthur

She measures them by seasons.

Summer is the shine of their youth, fevered kisses in the citrus grove, laughter and love and happiness, summer is naive promises of spending eternity together.

Autumn is him signing away his life to a mad king, but at least it means she will forever be his only; Mother’s deal with the Lannisters goes south when Lady Joanna dies, and so he is to be her only, too.

Winter is her marriage. Winter is cold nights and desire that could never be seen, winter is the Stark girl, winter is war.

They have no spring.


	8. constellations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a word meme.
> 
> @rhaella asked: elia/arthur + constellations

His mother is the one who first teaches him about the stars, where they lie in the sky and what shapes they make, the ancient Rhoynish legends behind each one, and it is Prince Lewyn who teaches him how to use them to navigate. A warrior need never lose his way, he says, so long as his eyes are sharp and the sky is clear.

He thinks it’s fate’s blessing that brings them together, in the beginning. Their sigils alone surely foretold it: his is a star, hers is the brightest star, his has a sword, hers has a spear. Indeed, it’s hard to think of any other possibility, not when they fit together so effortlessly, so ardently. Not when he can map her body as well as he can map the skies, not when he can make her smile even at her sickest, not when they stare up at the heavens together, bare and blissful, not when calling her  _wife_  becomes his greatest dream.

He should have known he had it wrong.

The sun is the brightest star, but when does it burn? It burns when he does not, lighting up the day where he is confined to night. They are opposites, destined not to remain as one but instead to forever be apart save for a single glimpse as twilight falls. He could chase her forever but never would they truly be joined.

And who is he to protest? This is no foe he can fight, no man he can run through with his blade, no dragon he can slay to save the princess in the tower. The sky is the gods’ domain and he is but a man. Even kings are bound to the will of the cosmos.

Worst of all, it makes everything fall into place, all the things he thought were mere injustices, the things he didn’t understand. Why he came to Sunspear in the first place and found a love that permeated his very soul, why her mother looked everywhere  _but_  Dorne for a match, why Aerys chose  _him_  for his Kingsguard, why he had to watch her marry his best friend and spend every day knowing it would no longer be his bed she shared. He can see her, talk to her, love her, yet never touch her, never call her his.

Yes, he should have known. It would have been better for them both if he’d never loved her at all, but the very thought feels like a punch to the stomach. It had always felt inevitable, like it had happened before and would happen again. Perhaps that is his curse, to have her for but a breath only to lose her. To another man, to death, to anything the gods desire. They would wink out like dying stars, one then the other, her then him or him then her, only to start all over again, ignorant of the pain to come.

Round and round and round they go, forever.


	9. "i saved a piece for you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a "ways to say 'I love you'" meme.
> 
> Anon asked: Elia Arthur, 9

>   _9. “I saved a piece for you.”_

No matter how big the argument, they try never to go to bed angry. It was a strategy Doran said he and Mellario used, and that although their marriage didn’t work out, he credited the method with keeping it together as long as it did.

Normally, they do exactly that, and she can’t quite say why last night was different. It wasn’t even that important of an argument; frivolous, really. Yet despite that, Arthur had spent the night on the couch, and when she got up at six, he had already left for his morning run. The only thing that’s kept her from stressing about it all day is that she’s hardly had a second to sit down, let alone think. A five-car pileup had sent a dozen people into the hospital that she’d had to help triage, then she’d had back-to-back belligerent parents, then their weekly addict who feigns injury to get his oxycodone. That all in addition to her usual rounds while short-staffed. By the time she’s finally able to leave, she’s dead on her feet. Realizing she’s starving, she grabs the last two chunks of a day-old coffee cake from the employee lounge.

The lights are on when she pulls into the driveway despite the late hour; old habits die hard, it appears, even when they’re in a fight. He’s passed out on the sofa, she discovers, but as soon as she locks the front door, he jolts awake, ever the light sleeper.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

He shuffles into the kitchen, looking so adorably delectable that if she weren’t exhausted, she’d climb him like a tree. “You’re late tonight. Everything okay?”

“Mostly. Some severe injuries, but no fatalities at least.” Taking the first step, she holds out the plate she’d snitched. “Here, I saved a piece for you. It’s half-stale, but…”

“You brought me old hospital food?”

“It’s a  _gesture_.”

He smiles. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.” He pauses, glances at the cake, then asks, “…do I have to eat that?”

“No, you don’t.” Laughing, she takes his hand. “Come to bed. I don’t sleep well without you there.”

When he kisses her, she feels everything shift back into place.


	10. "no, no, it's my treat."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a "ways to say 'I love you'" meme.
> 
> Anon asked: Elia / Arthur. 3

>   _3\. “No, no, it’s my treat.”_

She is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Whatever could go wrong has gone wrong, and she’s only halfway through her shift. No more tragedies than most, just little things: a misplaced patient chart, bungled blood work, a resident who should go back to med school, the works. And then, as she’s taking the elevator down the cafeteria to  _finally_  take her lunch break—with only one other person in the car, too, a nice change from the usual dozen—the elevator shudders to a stop.

She tries jamming the buttons, but it’s no good, and her cell has no signal either. “You have  _got_  to be joking,” she despairs. “How does this happen in a  _hospital_?”

She presses the alarm button and goes through the procedure with the repair crew on the other end. Half an hour, they tell her, since it’s not an  _emergency_ , which is exactly thirty minutes more than she’d wanted.

“Bad day?” She glances at her fellow trapped companion for the first time; even through her immense frustration, she doesn’t fail to notice he’s probably the most handsome man she’s met in this place. Not that it  _matters_.

“You have no idea.” She slumps to the ground and leans her head against the wall. A pang of hunger hits her and she grumbles, “I didn’t even get lunch.”

He sits down beside her and pulls from his jacket a granola bar. “Here,” he offers.

“That’s nice of you, but I couldn’t,” she says, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, sir, that was unprofessional of me to complain to you.”

“Arthur, not ‘sir,’” he says. “Complain away, I won’t tell. And please take it, Ms…” he glances at her name tag, “Elia.”

She starts to protest, but then a rebellious voice in her head points out,  _It’s just a granola bar._

“Thank you,” she says. It’s not exactly chicken marsala, but it would do. “So, um, what brings you here?”

“My sister’s having a baby,” he says. “I was deemed useless so they sent me down to get food.”

Elia smiles; she’d seen more useless brothers than she can count. “How’s the father holding up?”

Arthur scowls. “Not present.”

“Oh.” She’s seen more absent fathers than she can count, too. “Well, I’m sure everything will go just fine. We have a great team here.”

Talking is easy after that; surprisingly so, given that she’s still hungry and annoyed, and she doesn’t even know this man. She learns he’s a schoolteacher, that his sister’s a professional dancer, that he has a Labrador named Dawn, and that his hometown is not far from her own. And when the elevator shudders to life again, she learns she’s almost disappointed.

“I’ve got to run,” says Elia, after. “Thank you for the granola bar, and the company.”

“How about a proper lunch?” he asks quickly. “With me, I mean.”

 _Is he asking me out on a date?_  she wonders. It’s not the first time that’s happened during a shift, but usually they don’t look nervous.

“I can’t. This elevator thing killed my lunch break, I’ll just grab something from the vending machine. But I appreciate the offer.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “You’re busy. Sorry.”

He starts off towards the cafeteria, and before she can stop herself, she calls out his name. He turns around, surprised. “I, um…I get off at nine,” she says. “We could…we could get dinner or something, if your sister isn’t still in labor.”

“Sure,” he smiles. “Dinner then.”


	11. queen regent elia iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: I love the Arthur/Elia fic! Hope you continue it!
> 
> [Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12831045/chapters/29295084)   
>  [Part 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12831045/chapters/29295150)

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything. This is just tension relief.

It’s been her mantra of late, and it’s a mantra that’s much easier to believe right afterwards. The days in between are another thing entirely. Even Small Council meetings are distracting; Ser Barristan is the Lord Commander, but he has the same white cloak as…

She tosses aside her quill and massages her temples. She shouldn’t have started on the crown’s finances, not when they’re so dull and her mind is so preoccupied. She hadn’t intended for things to go this way, not at all, and then…gods, she wish she didn’t remember it as though it had happened only yesterday.

The night had been much like this, though then she’d been checking over the maester’s requisition for more supplies, many of which would require her to order from Essos at a hefty price. He’d come in halfway through to ask her if she wouldn’t mind allowing him to take Ser Jaime away for a few hours a day for more training, and soon she’d found herself unloading all her worries on him.

He’d touched her shoulder in sympathy, just her shoulder, yet it had been enough.

She’d pulled him to her with a cry, kissed him until her lips were bruised. He hadn’t resisted; just the opposite, as if he’d been wanting it. Things had gone from bad to worse, and before she knew it, they had ended up in her bed, all her stresses on hold, her body filled with nothing but bliss. She hadn’t even had the capacity for awkwardness, not for a full hour.

They’d agreed it would never happen again, chalked it up to temporary madness. She’s the Queen Regent, he’s a Kingsguard, and a newly reinstated one at that—it  _couldn’t_  happen again. Certainly no one could ever discover it.

Their resolve had lasted all of a fortnight before he was knocking on her door in the dead of night and she was answering. They never exchange words, which serves her just fine. She doesn’t have any idea what she’d even say. It had helped in the beginning, the release had calmed her thoughts and cleared her mind, but now it’s in many ways worse than it was before. Now, she can’t look at him without thinking of their nights together or how she can map every scar on his body, or the sound of her name on his lips as he finishes.

There’s nothing else to be done. She has to end it, and she  _will_.

But when he comes to her that night, the words don’t leave her mouth; instead, she shoves him onto her bed and climbs on top of him, as usual. She lies with him twice, after which normally he would dress and leave in silence the same way he arrived. Except this time, she speaks.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.”

He pauses, tunic in hand, and looks at her inscrutably. “Have I done something?”

“No,” she says, because he didn’t, not really. “It’s just not a good idea. If someone finds out, we’re both ruined.”

“Two months we’ve lain together and  _now_  you’re worried?” He narrows his eyes. “No, something’s changed. What is it?”

“Nothing’s  _changed_ , Arthur,” she snaps. “This was a poor decision from the start and I should never have let it get this far.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because I wanted to fuck someone,” she says sharply. “Because I hadn’t had a man in my bed since Rhaegar got me pregnant with Aegon, and not one I’ve had a choice in since Yorick.”

“Yorick Sand?” he asks, as though that’s remotely important.

“Yes. He was interested in me and I didn’t want to lose my maidenhood to a stranger with people listening at the door. What does it matter? That was half a lifetime ago.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“This has never  _meant_  anything, Arthur,” she says. “What we’ve been doing, it’s never meant anything.”

He dresses in stony silence but just as he gets to the door, he asks, “Why did you choose me, Elia? You could have picked  _any_  man to bed and they’d have been perfectly willing. It’s not for my conversation, since we never talk. So why me?”

“Because…”

_Because why?_  She’d never thought about it, even to herself. He’s not wrong, not  _all_  the courtiers or servants are uncomely, and she’s sure plenty wouldn’t mind lying with the Queen Regent. Certainly almost anyone else would have less risk as none of them would be of the Kingsguard, and none of them had the checkered past that she and Arthur have. So why  _had_  she chosen him? That first night maybe she could have determined was opportunistic, but the rest?

“I don’t know,” she says quietly.

“Right. Well, don’t worry, I won’t visit you again.”

She’s taken aback at the curtness of his tone and can’t help but ask, “Did it mean something to  _you_?”

He leaves without giving her an answer.


	12. blind date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: can you do a prompt where ashara makes elia and arthur go on a blind date together? pls

“No, no, and no. Absolutely  _not_.” Elia brandishes a handful of packaged syringes, as if that could ever thwart Ashara Dayne. “I don’t have time for dating, and besides, the last time you set me up with someone it went so badly I had to fake a call from my mother and then  _you_  hooked up with him.”

“That’s not the  _point_ ,” Ashara insists. “This isn’t another Brandon Stark, I promise. I know you’ll like this one.”

Elia sighs as her pager trills. “Ash, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m just not interested, okay?”

Doggedly following her down the halls, Ashara pleads, “Look, just—after this, I won’t bug you ever again, I promise.”

“If I go out with this guy, you’ll leave me alone?” she asks skeptically. “Even if it only lasts as far as a hello?”

“Cross my heart.”

The offer is an appealing one, she has to admit: Ashara has been pestering her about finding someone for years, ever since Rhaegar had skipped town without so much as a goodbye. Not  _all_  of Ashara’s choices had been disasters, granted. She’d been downright smitten with Baelor Hightower, but then his job transferred him across the country. Things had fizzled out on the romance end after that, but he remains one of her closest friends.

Elia checks the chart of her next patient and gives in. “ _Fine_. I’m off on Friday night, he can meet me at that Moroccan place on Fifth and Main.”

Ashara grins her dazzling grin, pecks Elia on the cheek, and starts flouncing away. “You won’t be disappointed, I mean it!”

“Ash,” she calls after her. “Can’t you at least tell me his name?”

Ashara pretends not to hear.

* * *

She doesn’t know why she’s nervous. It isn’t as though she  _hasn’t_  gone on a thousand first dates before. Perhaps it’s because he’s late. Like,  _half an hour_ late. She sits glumly at the table, trailing her finger around the rim of her water glass until it sings. She’s been stood up before—by Rhaegar, most often—but she’d thought Ashara’s earnestness meant this time would be different.

Finally fed up, she tosses her napkin on the chair and strides out of the dining room, already plotting the strongly worded conversation she intends to have with her oldest friend. In her distraction, however, she collides with someone and stumbles backwards a step.

“I’m sorry, I—” She blinks when she  _recognizes_  the man. “Arthur?”

“Elia?” He seems just as shocked as she is. “Wow, how long’s it been?”

“College?” They’d gone to the same university but rarely saw one another, her in the science building and him in education at the other end of campus. He’d been nice, though, she remembers that. “What are you doing here?”

Two long seconds of ringing silence follow her words as they come to the same realization.

“Oh, God,” Elia groans. “Ashara?”

Arthur awkwardly shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. I didn’t think...”

“Me neither.”

“Sorry I’m late,” he says sheepishly. “I had a parent-teacher conference that ran over and then there was an accident on the freeway. I called the restaurant and they said they’d let you know, but apparently that didn’t happen.”

“It’s fine.” It’s not really, she’d been about to leave, but she’s too blindsided by being set up with  _Ashara’s brother_  to work through it. “Listen, um, it’s been a long week. I think I’m just going to head home, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course. I have some grading to do anyway.” He looks almost relieved, and she’s glad for it. “At least let me walk you to your car?”

“Sure,” she says. “Thanks.”

“Ash told me you’re at the hospital downtown,” he says as they step out into the gently falling snow. “How’s that going?”

“It’s good,” she answers. “Tiring, and every week there’s some new set of parents I have to convince to vaccinate their damn child, but good. What about you?”

“Fourth graders,” he says. “A few cut-ups, but they just need direction is all.”

She smiles to herself. She remembers that, too, how he’d always spoken of wanting to help kids, not just teach them. She’d thought him idealistic at the time, but it appears he’d made it work.

“So, a blind date?” she teases. “Don’t tell me  _you_  have trouble in that department.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he laughs.

“I mean, you’re a good-looking guy,” she shrugs. “Employed, likable, the works. What are you doing getting dates from Ashara?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he counters.

“Touché.”

“No, I don’t know, it’s just...” His breath mists in the air as he exhales. “I’ve been on a few on my own, but nothing’s clicked. Haven’t gone past a third date in years.”

“I know the feeling.” Baelor had been half a decade ago now. “I’ve pretty much given up. To tell you the truth, I only agreed to this because Ash promised to quit badgering me.”

Arthur chuckles. “I did the same. She’s relentless, isn’t she?”

“For better or worse.” She comes to a stop as they arrive at her car. “This is me.”

“Well, drive safe,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Definitely.” Pure impulse has her adding, “You know, I have a perfectly good bottle of wine at my apartment. We can wallow in self-pity together, if you’re interested.”

He smiles, and she feels her stomach flip. “I’d like that.”


	13. arthur gets sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @poesiariptide asked: Hi! Can I request an Arthur/Elia domestic fluff drabble where for once he's the one who falls sick and she takes care of him?

She likes nights like this. Arthur’s head in her lap as he grades assignments, her fingers absently toying with his hair as she reads a trashy romance novel. Not exactly high-brow literature, but it’s an easy way to get her mind to settle after a rough week at the hospital.

“Ah, he’s just taken off his entire shirt to bandage a cut on her arm,” Elia remarks aloud. “She’s thinking he may not be so bad after all.”

Normally, Arthur finds amusement in her commentary, often remarking on the predictability of such novels and giving an over/under estimation on how many pages it would be before the protagonists quench their sexual tension. Tonight there’s no response, and she looks down to see that he’s fast asleep.

Fast asleep and snoring.

Elia chuckles to herself, and feels a pang of sympathy. In all the years she’s known him, he never snores except when he’s coming down with something. She knows full well what to expect in the coming days: a steadfast refusal to confess that he’s sick, followed by being too ill to get out of bed and looking adorably miserable. He’s as predictable as her bodice-rippers, her husband.

True to form, she watches him from over the rim of her coffee cup the next four mornings, smirking to herself as he valiantly tries to pretend he’s not losing his voice or having a coughing fit every ten minutes. She knows  _he_  knows that she knows, but she’ll play into his charade while it lasts.

On the fifth day, like clockwork, he doesn’t make it into the kitchen, and so she walks into the bedroom with a tray of soup, toast, and a bottle of Advil. “You are  _hopeless_.”

“Can you—”

“Already done. There’s a substitute scheduled for the rest of the week. I can call out, if you want. I have vacation days.”

He shakes his head. “Save them. I’ll live.”

“Okay, well, text me if you need anything. I  _mean_  it, I don’t want to find out you developed bronchitis because you went for a run again.”

“That was  _one time_ ,” he complains. “Go on, you’ll be late for work.”

“All right, all right, I’m going,” she laughs. “Rest up.”

He grabs her hand before she can leave, a tired smile on his lips. “I love you, you know that?”

“I know,” she says, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “I love you, too.”


	14. rhaegar learns about elia's newborn daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: If possible in your excellent [queen regent Elia fic & Rhaegar on the Wall](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12010113/chapters/27530571) can I get a Rhaegar getting the news that Elia has remarried & had a baby girl like with Baelor Hightower or someone else?

He hadn’t believed Lord Commander Qorgyle when he was told Oberyn Martell had come through the gates. What would he be doing  _here_? Here, when he’s an advisor in King’s Landing?

Yet sure enough, it is the Red Viper who finds him in the barracks, calm as you please.

“Do you believe that in all my travels, I’ve never been here?” he asks, as though they’d seen each other only yesterday. “It’s impressive.”

 _Not when you have to maintain it_ , Rhaegar bemoans.  _It’s a bloody nightmare._

“What are you doing here, Prince Oberyn?” he asks. “Gloating?”

His erstwhile good-brother considers for a moment. “In a fashion. I came to tell you of Elia’s happiness. She’s just had another child.”

“Good, she deserves—wait, what?” Surely he’s misheard,  _surely_.

“Yes, I suppose the news must not have made it to you,” he says. His smile is as poisonous as a snake’s. “It’s a girl. Mariah, she’s named. We’re all very—”

“A  _girl_?” Rhaegar interrupts. “She’s had a  _girl_? And she lived? The maester said that was impossible.”

 _Oberyn must be lying_ , he thinks desperately.  _He has to be. The maester was certain, and I…no, the gods would not let this be so._

“The maester was wrong. Yours often are, I’ve found. No doubt he underestimated Elia as so many people do. Of course, I’m sure it helped that she had time to recuperate and she no longer has you or your father around. The birth went quite smoothly.”

He searches Oberyn’s face for a hint of a falsehood, but can find none. Powering through his disbelief, he asks, “So she has married again, then? To which lord?”

“No, I think she’s rather had enough of marriage,” he says. “But as you well know, such a union is not necessary for children.”

Rhaegar stares at him. “A  _bastard_? You’re lying, the…the court would never let that pass. I’d have heard of such a thing.”

“The realm is stable, a girl is no threat to anyone, and compared to  _your_ actions, this is hardly more than idle gossip,” Oberyn says serenely. “No one is going to start another war over this.”

“But…” It’s like moving through molasses, trying to overcome this barrage of information. “If she is not wed, then who is the father?”

“She’s not announced it nor, I suspect, will she ever. Some have their suspicions, understandably. The babe does have purple eyes, after all. Quite a rare trait, that.”

“Purple…?” It’s slow to come to him, but when it does, he feels the blood drain from his face. “No, that’s not possible.”

“It can’t be proven, of course,” Oberyn shrugs. “We have the blood of the dragon ourselves, there’s nothing to say the color didn’t come from Elia.”

“But he’s…he’s a  _Kingsguard_!”

“Aye, and so he’s not claimed the babe,” says Oberyn. “For now.”

Rhaegar shakes his head in a fruitless attempt to clear it. “How did that even…?”

“I suppose no one would have told you that either,” says Oberyn. “They’d have wed in our youth, had my mother allowed it.”

“ _Wed?_ ”

“Indeed.” Oberyn laughs. “You look rather faint, my prince. Shall I give you a moment?”

_A moment? More like a lifetime._

“Ale. I need ale.”


	15. mariah morningstar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @ask-mama-germania asked: I b e g you-can we please get another chapter of the Queen Regent Elia Martell and Rhaegar at the wall-fic?
> 
> [Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12010113/chapters/27530571)   
>  [Part 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12831045/chapters/29295267)   
>  [Part 3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12010113/chapters/28923933)

It’s as she’s poring over the latest granary reports that her door bursts open—something that might have surprised her under normal circumstances, had she not been expecting this exact entrance for days now.

“Have you  _heard_  what they’re calling her?” exclaims Arthur, barely waiting until the door is closed to start in on his tirade.

Elia doesn’t look up from the reports. “Yes, Arthur, I’ve heard. I really don’t see the problem. She’s good at arms, that should make you proud.”

“She’s going by Mariah  _Morningstar_.”

“A nice bit of alliteration, don’t you think? Rhaenys came up with it, I believe.”

“ _Elia_.”

With a sigh, she sets aside the papers and turns to him. He looks about two minutes away from having an apoplexy. “All right, perhaps it’s a bit on the nose,” she allows. “But she’s four-and-ten, we should be grateful she’s not sneaking off with stableboys.”

“ _On the nose?_ ” he asks. “She may as well announce it to the world.”

Elia rolls her eyes. “ _Honestly_ , Arthur. We may never have confessed who her father is, but everyone at court has figured it out. She looks just like you, and we’ve shared a bed for over twenty years now. It’s not exactly a secret.”

“She’s too much like your brother.”

“She’s as stubborn as me and as dedicated as you. Maybe Oberyn enables her, but we’ve got only ourselves to blame for the rest.”

He slumps down on the bed, as tightly strung as a bow.

“Oh, relax. You’re going to get wrinkles.” With a sly smile, she abandons her reports entirely and climbs onto the bed. Slowly sliding his shirt over his head, she murmurs, “I know a few ways to help with that.”

“I’m not going to let this go, you know,” he warns, even as he flips her to her back and begins unlacing her gown.

“Yes, you are,” she laughs. “You will let our little girl have her nickname and you will continue training her just like you always have.”

He tosses her gown aside and mutters, “Maybe I won’t.”

“Then Rhaenys and Oberyn will take up the mantle.” She reaches up and gently cups his cheek. “It’s just a name, my love.”

He kisses her palm. “You’re right, I just…”

“It’s not a sin to worry about your child,” she says, “but it  _is_  a sin to leave your queen wanting.”

His frown turns into a smirk. “I can fix that.”


	16. escaping to essos before elia's wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: How about Elia and Arthur running off to Essos together? Like, he sells his armor, she sells most of her jewelry and they just life a very sweet life together

She wishes there weren’t a mirror in her chambers. It would mean she could avoid catching glimpses of herself, glimpses of the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Mother to kings and princesses. Rhaegar’s wife. Her mother is overjoyed, she knows, but all Elia feels is panic. She’d never wanted this. She’d never wanted out of Dorne, never wanted a throne, never wanted the crown prince. She’s only been in King’s Landing for a month, yet already she knows there would be no passion in her marriage, no love. She’d grown up idolizing her parents’ marriage, one of surprise kisses and laughter, not...Rhaegar.

This is her last night as merely a princess of Dorne; come morning, she would be bound forever to House Targaryen. She turns away from the mirror and sits on her bed, overcome with nausea, her breath coming in short bursts.

When her door slowly creaks open, she expects it to be Ashara or one of her other ladies, perhaps even the queen—she certainly doesn’t expect it to be  _Arthur_.

Looking at him is just as painful as looking in the mirror. Once, she’d thought she would marry him, had envisioned their future together. Now, she will be forced to be around him every hour of every day, wed not to him but to his friend, never to touch.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, defeated.

He snaps shut the door and hurries into her room, more animated than she’s seen him in a long time. “You’re not going to marry Rhaegar.”

Her breath stops completely. “What?”

“You don’t want it, and nor could I endure it.” He sinks to his knees in front of her and grasps her hands. “Come away with me.”

“Come away—? Arthur, what are you  _talking_  about?”

“Rhaegar isn’t the only one with friends. There’s a ship that can take us anywhere we want to go. You just have to say yes.”

Elia can do nothing but stare at him. “That would be...that would be  _treason_ , or close enough. You’re a Kingsguard, I’m betrothed, we would be breaking every vow—”

“I swore to love you long before I swore anything to Aerys,” he interrupts. “That should come before aught else, shouldn’t it?”

Abruptly she stands from the bed and begins pacing, trying to keep her wits about her. This is  _impossible_. Even if he does have a ship’s captain, they couldn’t...they  _couldn’t_...surely not? If they were to be caught...but if they  _weren’t_  caught...?

“This is madness,” she whispers. “You speak  _madness_.”

He slowly gets to his feet, searching her face, and then looks away. “Yes, I suppose it was. It was foolish to think you would shirk your duty. It was unfair to ask you.”

He gets halfway to the door before she rushes to him and grabs his arm. “I said it was madness, I didn’t say I wouldn’t leave,” she blurts out. “But...but where would we  _live_? What would we do for coin? What—”

“I don’t know,” he says with a helpless laugh. “I don’t know. We’d figure something out.”

“We need a  _plan_ ,” she says. She  _always_  has a plan. Oberyn is the one who jumps in with both feet without a guarantee, not her.

“We don’t have time for a plan.” He holds out his hand to her. “If not now, then never.”

She shuts her eyes for a moment, for once letting her heart lead. Locking away her good judgment, she snatches up the nearest bag she can find, thrusting two gowns at random into it as well as her box of jewelry—Arthur may be fine having no safeguards, but she’s not. Not all of her jewels are sentimental, after all, she could sell them if need be. The crown Rhaella had gifted her would fetch the highest price, but that one she doesn’t take; she can’t bring herself to even think of carelessly discarding it.

 _I’m sorry_ , she thinks. She knows Rhaella had been so happy to have her there, a reminder of her mother and the daughter she’s never had.  _I’m sorry I can’t marry your son._

There’s much more she wants to bring, trinkets and clothing alike, but she knows she could never take them, not with the subtlety they would need. “All right,” she says. She looks up at him, struck again by how  _preposterous_  this is. Not just for her, but for dutiful, sensible Arthur.

She takes his hand.

* * *

She doesn’t often have the dreams anymore, the ones where she’s certain she imagined it all, the ones where she expects to find herself again in the Red Keep the day before her wedding and all of this would fade away. She’d had it last night, though, and had had to light a candle to illuminate the room, open the window to take in the air, reassure herself that this  _is_  real, that she  _had_  fled from it all.

From behind her she hears him get out of bed and she turns around with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

His voice is still raspy with sleep, but he is otherwise as alert as ever. “Are you all right?”

“Just the dream again,” she assures. “I’ll be fine.”

“I have them, too, sometimes,” he admits. That comes as a surprise—he’d never told her that before. “I dream that Aerys has found out and I’ll be the next on his pyre. And then I see you. Both of you.”

He places his hands on her swollen belly, and she covers them with her own. “We have nothing to fear anymore. We’re safe.”

“Yes,” he says, kissing her. “We are.”


	17. prince consort arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Can I get Elia Princess of Dorne and Consort Arthur reacting to Rhaegar choosing to stash his teenage mistress in her own country while Aerys threatening open war (handwaves Rhaegar's bride as being a cousin through Rhae or Daella).

When the news trickles into Sunspear about the abduction of Lyanna Stark, he thinks it must be a mistake. Some kind of elaborate joke made in poor taste. He’s closer to Rhaegar than he is to his own brother—something like this is not something his oldest friend would do. It’s not true, it  _can’t be_.

Even when the second raven arrives informing them that Brandon Stark had stormed King’s Landing calling for Rhaegar’s head, he holds out feeble hope that the man was simply mistaken. What Rhaegar had done at Harrenhal was appalling, crowning the girl over his pregnant wife, but  _kidnapping_  is another kettle of fish.

He knows Elia doesn’t have the same faith, but for his sake she entertains the idea of a miscommunication. At least, until the third raven. She leans against the doorframe of the girls’ room as he puts them to bed, and it’s not until they retire to their own chambers that she lets her disquiet show.

She hands him the letter, a look of simultaneous exhaustion and simmering anger on her face. “This came an hour ago. Care to tell me what to make of it?”

Arthur scans the contents and feels a knot form in the pit of his stomach. “Maybe…maybe her outriders are mistaken.”

“You know Aunt Deria. Would she send this without being certain?”

He  _does_  know her, incidentally, and Elia’s right. The Lady of Kingsgrave wouldn’t risk something like this unless it were true. Yet even with the evidence in front of him, his mind has trouble acknowledging it. Not only the taking of Lady Lyanna, but that he would come to  _Dorne_. As though trusting that Arthur would  _accept_  such a thing, would shelter him and shame his homeland in the process.

Elia takes his hand in hers. “I’m sorry. I pray this weren’t so.”

“I don’t understand,” says Arthur. “What’s in this letter…Elia, that’s a stranger.”

Elia is quiet for a moment, and he knows she’s choosing her words carefully. “They say a third pregnancy could kill the princess. You’ve told me of Rhaegar’s letters to his uncle at the Wall, and of his…opinions. Is it possible he took this poor girl for that?”

 _Is it?_  He’d never taken much truth from those scrolls, but Rhaegar always had. Sometimes it had concerned Arthur, the  _depth_  of his beliefs, his calm surety that the Long Night would come, the way he wouldn’t listen when Arthur delicately tried to tell him that trusting prophecies was a perilous road to go down. Even so, in his wildest dreams he wouldn’t have expected  _this_.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the fact that he  _doesn’t_  know is a crushing blow. “If I could just talk to him—”

“No,” says Elia sharply. “Absolutely not. If Rhaegar’s done this, there’s no telling what he might do next. Even if he didn’t kill you, he has two Kingsguard who would not hesitate. You are father to our four daughters and the love of my life, don’t you  _dare_  ask me to put you at risk. I will not allow it.”

There is true fear in her eyes, and he hates that he put it there. “I wouldn’t go  _alone_. I’d take your uncle, Lady Deria has men-at-arms as well, and I’m a rather decent fighter myself.”

“I don’t care if you’re Aemon the bloody Dragonknight. My answer is the same.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “I know you care for him. But you said it yourself, the man who did these things is a stranger. If it is talking you want to do, then let my aunt’s men go to the tower. If they fail to take him prisoner, then at least my husband will still be alive. If they succeed, then we will go to Kingsgrave and you may speak with him.”

“We?”

“You’ve been at my side for more years than I can count,” she says. “You think I’m about to let you leave it now?”

He smiles. It’s as good a compromise as he’s going to get. “Send the letter.”

“Since when do  _you_  give me orders?”

The fear in her eyes from earlier is gone; in its place, unbridled lust. In one swift movement he carries her to the bed and begins working apart the laces of her gown. “Since now.”


	18. carving their initials into a tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a secret relationship meme.
> 
> rhaella asked: elia x arthur “if we carve our initials in a tree no one will know”

They go to the godswood. She doesn’t follow the old gods, but she claims that since no one else in this city does either, it’s one of the only places she can think and not be interrupted. Arthur claims that  _because_  it’s so isolated, it is his duty to accompany her for protection in case anyone decided to harm her there.

No one suspects a thing. How could they? They distrust anyone from Dorne, but she’s never given them cause to doubt her goodness, and besides, she’s neither robust nor endowed, so who could ever lust after her? They don’t doubt Arthur either, the most honor-bound knight in the realm who would never put a toe out of line.

Everyone is, of course, wrong.

They rid themselves of all inhibition as soon as the trees surround them, as soon as their own footsteps are the only sounds. She kisses him with the desperation of a woman lashed to a man with not a single passionate bone in his body, and he devours her with the frustration of a man who in sight of others must stay well away from her.

It’s not always heat and desire; sometimes they simply talk, her arm linked with his. Not of court or Rhaegar or Aerys, no, never about them. Sometimes it’s their youth, sometimes it’s the future they could never have, sometimes it’s about nothing at all. They do pay their respect to the heart tree, asking the old gods to understand their dilemma, to provide them the compassion the Seven do not. Occasionally, it’s almost as if the gods respond, for she will feel suddenly at ease after her prayer, as though the gods  _do_  understand, as though they  _will_  shelter them.

Yet it’s always fleeting. Time always runs away from them, they can never stay as long as they’d like. It’s…impermanent.

Then one day, following their visit to the heart tree, Arthur brings her to an ancient oak, the one they’ve sat under more times than she can count, with its wide, draping branches that give the illusion of privacy. It’s autumn now, the base of the tree drenched in leaves that crunch beneath their feet.

From his belt, Arthur withdraws a dagger and carves a letter into the bark, deep and indelible. “Years from now, someone will find this,” he says. “Someone will wonder who was here. Someone will make up a tale.”

He’s the dreamer between the two of them, and she the realist, but it’s charming, endearing, the idea that there will be a record of them forever, even if no one will know the truth. She kisses him sweetly then takes the knife and carves an  _E_  next to his  _A_.

Above their initials, a falling star.


	19. revealing their relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a secret relationship meme.
> 
> tahiri-veyla asked: Arthur/Elia “how much longer do i have to keep swallowing my desires for you.” But with Rhaegar deceased rather than the Lyanna obsessed fuckery.

He barely waits until the last of the courtiers are dismissed from the throne room to hasten to her, pain written in his expression. Having to restrain herself from looking at him more than appropriate in public has steadily gotten more difficult as time has gone on, and today had been nearly unbearable.

“Elia, how much longer do I have to keep swallowing my desire for you?” he asks. “Nearly a decade we’ve been in the same bloody castle—”

“I know how long it’s been.”  _Gods_  does she know.

“Four years Rhaegar’s been dead,” he continues, undeterred. “Why must we still be kept secret?”

“You’re a  _Kingsguard_ , Arthur,” she reminds him. “What would that look like? Do you  _want_  to have people call us the next Criston Cole and Rhaenyra?”

“So you want this to stop? Us?”

She turns away from him, stricken at the very thought. “No. We just can’t be public.”

Arthur falls quiet for several moments, then comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. “What if I  _want_  it to be public?”

“People would say I seduced you away from your vows, you know they would,” she replies. “Besides, your vows command you to be chaste.”

“They don’t,” he says. “Not explicitly. I can take no wife, and that’s something I’ve come to accept. But there’s nothing of...liaising. People are fools if they think only the few deviant Kingsguard over the last three hundred years have shared a woman’s bed. Or a man’s, for that matter.”

 _Is that true?_  She wracks her brain trying to remember the exact wording of his vows. It had been too painful to attend his swearing-in, but she had done so for her uncle nine years past.

She slowly relaxes into his embrace, feeling her conviction waver. It has been as hard for her as for him, tiptoeing around everyone and touching only when they are completely alone. Seven years of pretending he means nothing to her. Seven years of wishing they could go back to easier times, when he was just a knight and she was just a princess.

“I love you. You are more to me than some words I swore half a lifetime ago to a mad king.”

She turns to face him, drowning in the earnestness of his eyes. “And if it meets objection? If it endangers us? Endangers my children?”

“Then I’ll take you away. I’ll take  _all_  of us away. I would rather live as exiles in Essos than lose you.” He gestures across the room to the cursed Iron Throne that she will sit until Aegon comes of age. “Have you ever wanted all this? Truly?”

He knows perfectly well that she hasn’t. In fact, finding a quaint lodging in Essos with no crown, no duties, no worries, sounds so appealing she nearly suggests to him that she abandon Aegon’s rights altogether. He and Rhaenys are young enough that being royalty doesn’t matter to them yet. She would have little to lose.

Only, she  _does_  have duties here that she must fulfill. But nevertheless, having the option is a balm on her fretting. “All right.” Her heart beats in stutters. She hasn’t felt this rebellious since she was a girl sneaking out from her mother’s quarantine. “All right. Yes.”

She leans up and kisses him right then and there, for the first time with a crown on her head and him in his Kingsguard whites where anyone could come across them. She kisses him until she’s breathless with desire. Kisses him until finally he pulls away and rests his forehead against hers.

“Into the fire then?” he asks.

She smiles, terrified and exhilarated all at once. “Together.”


	20. aegon kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: It’s a hard road, but Arthur eventually regains the trust of the Martells and Dorne. (post-rebellion, ArthurxElia of course!)

Oberyn had wanted her to order his execution. Being the queen regent, she had the power. And she  _had_  thought about it, about how vindicating it would be to see him punished for what he did. But in the end she hadn’t done any such thing. The realm was in love with him, and her son’s reign was tenuous enough already. So she kept him alive, even let him keep his white cloak.

But guard Aegon he would not. She saw to it that he only ever guarded the queen or Viserys. Her children she entrusted to her uncle, to the other Kingsguard, to her Dornish soldiers, but not to him. Her lingering anger makes it easy to brush him aside, to simply pretend he doesn’t exist. Matters at court even become routine, the realm simmers down, and she allows herself to become optimistic about the future.

Until early on the morning of Aegon’s tenth name day when she creeps into his bedroom to tickle him awake.

What she finds is not her son.

The smell of copper assaults her, and on the floor are Ser Gerold and two of her Dornish guards lying in half-congealed pools of blood. A note is pinned to Aegon’s bed, the message short.

_We will not suffer a Dornish king._

She screams.

* * *

Three weeks he’s been gone. Three weeks of no ransom, no further kidnappings, no nothing. The only things holding her together are Rhaenys and the instinct deep in her soul that tells her Aegon is still alive. They haven’t killed him, she has to believe that. She doesn’t know  _what_  they’re doing with him, what they want, but he’s alive.

Soldiers had been sent out, but then the package of each of their forefingers had been received in the rookery, and since then, she’d sent no one else. What she can do instead, she doesn’t know. She’s barely done  _anything_  except sit in Aegon’s room, a shell of a mother.

“Elia? Elia, look at me.”

She blinks herself out of her fugue and Arthur’s face focuses into view from where he kneels in front of her. She vaguely recalls him coming in minutes ago, but these days, her attention has been scattered.

“What do you want?” she asks. He is unwelcome here. He is unwelcome  _anywhere_. He is the last person she wishes to see right now.

But look she does.  _Really_  looks, as she hasn’t these many long years. He’s still devastatingly handsome, but there are lines on his face, too, and it hits her only now how long he’s been at her side. As her uncle’s squire, as her late husband’s sworn sword, as a Kingsguard.  _Thirty years._

“Let me go,” he says. “Let me find him. I will bring him home.”

She has every reason to refuse. Had he not abandoned her and her children ten years past in the worst of ways? How can she trust him now? How could she  _ever_  trust him? No, she should entrust Aegon’s return to a more loyal knight, a more loyal  _man_.

But…she’s not been blind either. She’s seen how her coldness and resentment have wounded him. She’s heard her daughter’s pleas of wanting to play with him. She’s heard his  _own_  pleas, a hundred times. They’ve grown far less frequent over the years and far more subtle, but the regret on his face every time he looks at her is real. And lately, before Aegon had vanished, her heart had begun to soften, just slightly.

“Please,” he tries again. “I love your little boy like he’s my own, and I—”

He simply gazes at her, laid bare.

“I know.”

And she does. She’s not sure when it started for him, had only figured it out half a year past, but she knows. She’s seen it in the way she catches him staring at her at supper sometimes, or the angry moodiness when various lordlings had come to her early on to try and win her favor with pretty words and recitations of their wealth.

“Let me bring him home to you,” he says. “I don’t deserve your trust, I know that, but lend me your faith, just this once.”

“And if you should die in the attempt?” she asks.

“Would you care?” he counters. “My presence causes you pain. If I were dead, it’d be better for everyone.”

She pictures a scenario where exactly that happens, where his body is brought back to King’s Landing in tatters, his violet eyes shut forever. She feels a roiling in her stomach that she doesn’t understand. He’s right, his presence  _has_  caused her pain, and she  _should_  be happy if he were dead so she wouldn’t have to be reminded anymore of what he’d done.

But…

“I would,” she whispers, so quietly she can barely hear herself. “I would care.”

She doesn’t realize what he’s about to do until suddenly he lurches forward and presses his lips to hers. It’s such a surprise, and it’s been  _so long_  since she’s been kissed by anyone at all, that for an instant she finds herself responding, leaning into him and trying not to think of how wrongfully  _good_  it feels.

He jerks himself from her, flushing furiously. “Forgive me. I—I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, her entire being a veritable mess. “No matter,” she says. She draws in a shaky breath, her mind made up. “Go. Find my son. Bring him back to me.”

* * *

She hears hide nor hair of him for three months. Twelve weeks she is a nervous wreck, wondering whether she should send more men, wondering if Arthur had perished and she’s been wasting precious time. And then—

 _And then_.

It’s midday as she’s attempting to focus on status reports of the city when Ashara bursts into her solar. She says nothing. Nothing, and  _everything_.

They both fully sprint to the gate of the Red Keep, out to the drawbridge. Elia drops to her knees as Aegon runs to her, and for the first time in torturous months, her son is in her arms. They’re both a sobbing mess, Aegon whimpering nothing but  _mama, mama_.

An eternity passes before she breaks their embrace and looks at him from head to toe, taking in how he’s covered in dirt and there are scratches on his face and arms. His hair is longer, a tangle of sandy curls.

She doesn’t care about any of it. He’s  _here_ , he’s  _safe_.

She looks up, intending to say something to his savior, but Arthur is preoccupied with hugging Ashara and Lewyn, of tiredly regaling Jaime of what had happened.

She spends the rest of the day refusing to let Aegon out of her sight, only relenting when he falls fast asleep and she entrusts him to her uncle and two of the other Kingsguard, plus a dozen of her Dornish guards. She’ll spend the night with him, but she has something to do first.

She goes to Ashara’s chambers, knowing Ashara has missed her brother near as much as Elia has missed Aegon. They’re in the middle of a conversation, but when Ashara spots her, she briefly glances between them then excuses herself.

“You did it,” says Elia. “You found him.”

Arthur, too, looks all the worse for wear. As he walks towards her, there’s a noticeable limp in his step and she’s never seen someone more visibly exhausted. “I made you a promise.”

“Thank you,” she croaks. With a hiccup, she throws her arms around him, bursting into tears once more. “ _Thank you._ ”

His grip is tight but trembling, though whether in emotion or fatigue, she doesn’t know. They stay like that for longer than is probably appropriate; then again, how long is appropriate to thank the man who rescued her only son?

“I thought of you,” he murmurs in her ear. “You kept me going.”

Uncomfortable, she releases him. “Arthur…”

“I know you don’t reciprocate,” he interjects, “I just needed to tell you.”

She tentatively cups his cheek, careful to avoid all the cuts and bruises. “I did worry for you. I…I missed you.” His gaze is measured. “I’m not sure I can ever forgive you for what you did back then, but maybe I can…move forward.”

“Move forward to where?”

She bites her lip. “I don’t know. Just forward.” When he smiles, she feels… _something_  bloom in her chest, and does her level best to ignore it. “Will you tell me what happened?”

“Whatever you will of me,” he says, “you shall have.”


	21. 16-year-old elia and arthur avoid her betrothal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a secret relationship meme.
> 
> @epeolxtry asked: “i’m getting tired of hiding…” (Elia x Arthur)

Finding someplace to steal away with him is not normally such a problem, but today it seems no matter where they turn, there’s  _someone_ , until finally Elia can take it no more.

“I  _hate_  this,” she growls. “Why do we have to hide? Why do  _we_  have to slink around like convicts when Oberyn can chase skirts all he wants and my mother merely looks the other way? A courtesy she would not extend to us if she found out, you can be sure of that.”

“She already knows,” says Arthur quietly. “Your mother, I told her.”

Elia’s eyes widen in terror. “You  _what_?”

“Not  _all_  of it,” he clarifies, blushing just slightly. “I...I asked for your hand.”

“My hand? What did she say?”

“She thought I was joking at first.” Dejection is written on every inch of him. “When she figured out I wasn’t...well, I suppose she wasn’t as cruel as she could have been. She said no, of course. She has higher aspirations for you than a second son of a vassal house.”

 _Princess Nymeria married a Dayne_ , Elia thinks venomously,  _yet Arthur isn’t good enough for you, Mother?_

“I’ve had it with her  _ambitions_!”

For  _years_  she’s been desperately trying to make her mother amenable to Elia marrying someone of her choosing. Someone of high enough birth, but someone from Dorne, not afield where they’d call her a snake and wanton and gods only know what else. Her father had always told her he wouldn’t let her be married off for advantage, but when it comes down to it, it’s not him who makes the decisions.

Anger and impulse overrule caution, and she grasps Arthur’s hands in hers. “What if we just leave?” she exclaims. “You know Mother will have her way if we don’t. I’m six-and-ten now; if she refused your offer, that means she has others in mind. If we stay here, within the year I’ll be betrothed to some northerner, you know that. You’re second in line to Starfall, no doubt your father will marry you off in short order, too. And then where would we be?”

“Elia, that’s—”

“Mad, I know. But I can’t live a life without you in it. I  _won’t_.”

Arthur gestures to the luxurious quarters around them, filled with all the finery that comes with being Dornish royalty. “You’d give all this up for a life in hiding?”

“Not for a life in hiding,” she says. “For a life with  _you_.”

A smile slowly spreads across his face as he realizes she’s serious. His kiss is all the answer she needs.

* * *

There’s no time to say their goodbyes, and so Elia does the best she can to express her heart in the short letter she leaves on her bed. She takes one last look around her childhood room, immaculate but for the ransacked closet and pilfered trinkets that would ensure their passage across the sea. A kernel of fear sits in her stomach—they’re only sixteen, what do they know of living on their own?—but all she has to do is think of the life that awaits her, a life of enduring insult and being prized for nothing more than her ability to bear children, for her resolve to harden.

She meets Arthur at the gate, where he has his own sack of belongings slung over his shoulder. The guards look at her in suspicion, but this is hardly the first time she and Arthur have snuck out in the middle of the night, so they have no reason to think anything’s amiss.

There are dozen ships docked at the port, all of them devoid of captains—probably at the taverns or brothels, she guesses—except for one, a beautiful swan ship. It is a woman who captains the ship, to Elia’s surprised delight, her skin smooth and dark as teak, her hair held back by a bright patterned scarf.

“To what do I owe the honor?” she asks, in a voice with the accent of the Summer Isles. “It’s not every day a princess of Dorne boards my ship.”

“I’ve studied all the routes of the ships that pass through here,” says Arthur. “You’re bound next for Essos. We’d like to join you.”

“Now why would a princess and a son of Starfall want passage to Essos?” The woman looks between them a moment, then bursts into a fit of warm laughter. “ _Ah_. I see.”

“Will you take us?” Elia asks. If she’s wasting her time with this captain, she needs to know. “We can pay.”

The woman grins, revealing a tooth capped in gold and dimples in her cheeks. “Come on then.”

The ship leaves when pale blue begins to paint the sky, cutting through the layer of fog low on the harbor. The captain barks orders to her crew, an unfamiliar, welcome cacophony.

Elia walks with Arthur to the stern of the ship and entwines her fingers with his as they watch the sun rise.


	22. rhaegar (unsuccessfully) slides into lyanna's dms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Hey can you write a fic where Rhaegar tries to slide into Lyanna's DMs and she immediately sends the receipts to Elia, who dumps him and takes her out for lunch to say thanks, and they hit it off (romantically or just becoming friends, either one) As a modern AU
> 
> Another anon asked: Modern au fic: after finding out about his affair with Lyanna Stark Elia tells Rhaegar she’s leaving him for Arthur

When she receives the string of direct messages, of  _screenshots_ , she is angry for a few hours, and then she laughs. Laughs like she hasn’t in years. Lack of passion is no cause for a divorce as far as the courts are concerned, but  _adultery_...adultery with  _proof_...that is another matter entirely. Nearly a decade of being miserable will finally come to an end.

It is with a clear head that she offers to take the girl to lunch, and the poor thing looks frightened as a colt, as though she expects Elia to shank her. “I want to thank you, Miss Stark,” she says, stirring a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “My husband is an alluring man. Many in your position would have accepted his advances.”

“I had a boyfriend a while back,” says Lyanna, no older than eighteen. “Robert. My brother, his best friend, told me to ignore his past, that he’d be faithful to me. He wasn’t. I swore never to let that happen to myself or to another woman if I could help it.”

“You’ve done me a favor. You may consider me an ally. I have connections of my own. If there’s a college you want to get into, or a job, I can make it happen.”

“Oh, no. Thank you, but no,” says Lyanna. “I’m going to make it on my own. I don’t know as what yet, but something.”

Elia smiles. She’d been that recklessly carefree once. Perhaps she could be again.

“Well, I wish you luck, whatever your goals.”

They maintain pleasant conversation, and later that night, Elia happily accepts the girl’s Facebook friend request. Let her cheating bastard of a husband fret about  _that_.

* * *

With Rhaegar accompanying his father on a business trip to the capital, the house is quiet. She used to dread such things, for it left her alone with her thoughts and her resentment. But not today.

Trips away with his father means he must use the senator’s bodyguards, which in turn means he leaves his personal bodyguard behind. It’s just as well, since Elia knows Arthur enjoys having a vacation every once in a while. How often had they talked about exactly that over a few glasses of wine?

She is a bundle of nerves, but exhilarated too, high on  _possibility_. Remembering the details of Rhaegar’s DMs only solidifies her resolve.

She marches across the grounds to the guest house, knocks on the door, and doesn’t even let him get out a greeting before she kisses him, hungry with lust that she’d never allowed herself to act on before.  _She_  had always held to her marriage vows, no matter how much she was tempted.

And  _oh_ , how she was tempted. It had begun on the first of Rhaegar’s major trips; Arthur listened to her, managed to make her smile, and when he looked at her in that way of his, she’d blushed like a silly schoolgirl. She’d never taken it further, though, nor had he.

 _Had._  Past tense.

“Elia, what—?” Arthur asks against her lips.

“It can finally be over,” she says. “Rhaegar propositioned this teenager, one of his fans. Former fans, I should say. Sweet girl, actually—she sent me the receipts. Don’t you see? I have reason for divorce now. I can rid myself of him. We don’t have to hide how we feel anymore.”

Arthur takes all of ten seconds to process, then he’s on her, his desire so palpable that she whimpers. They waste no time at all, they don’t even make it to his bedroom. He has her right there in the entryway against the door, the way she’d imagined for what seems like a lifetime.

(Okay, maybe she’d imagined something a tad more romantic, but this suffices just fine.)

They do make it to his bed for the second round, and afterwards it occurs to him to ask, “You  _are_  serious about the affair, right?”

She rolls her eyes but rummages around in her discarded jeans for her phone to show him the DMs. “Yes, I’m serious.”

She sees him go through a gamut of emotions and settles on indignation. “How could he do this? To  _you_?”

“You’re adorable when you’re angry,” she teases. “What are you going to do about it?”

“This, for starters.” He tosses her phone aside and kisses his way down her body to the flashpoint of her pleasure, rendering her so incoherent she can’t remember even what letter her husband’s name starts with.

* * *

In the end, she decides turnabout is fair play. After moving everything that’s hers into storage and booking a hotel until she can find a place of her own, she opens her laptop and starts composing a new direct message to Rhaegar. 

> _I’m leaving you._ _I know about Lyanna and I’ve contacted a divorce lawyer._
> 
> _Oh, and I’m fucking your bodyguard. You’ll find his letter of resignation on your desk._
> 
> _XO, Elia_

“Done?” Arthur asks, delightfully naked beside her and  _very_  distractingly sliding his hand up her thigh.

“Almost. One more thing.”

Without fanfare she blocks him from all her social media sites, sets her laptop on the nightstand, and lets herself be worshipped.


	23. pregnant elia is very sexually frustrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a secret relationship meme.
> 
> ximenz13 and 1nsaankahanhai-bkr asked: “okay no — i can’t handle the way they keep staring at you.” Arthur x Elia

It had happened at Sunspear, ever since he grew from awkward to as handsome as his mother is beautiful. The girls, and some of the boys, had begun  _looking_  at him, and a few had gone so far as to suggest in no uncertain terms what they’d like to do to him. But it had never really bothered Elia, primarily because it was  _she_  whom he cherished every night, it was  _she_  who held his heart. And even though they’d never made their relationship public, per se, only the boldest of his admirers dared approach him.

But  _here_ …

She’s walking through the garden with Ashara when they come upon a group of young courtiers. Elia plans on making polite conversation, a brief hello, but they’re giggling amongst themselves and she finds herself curious.

“I fear I’ve missed something,” she greets. “Is there new gossip?”

“Oh, not gossip, Your Grace,” says one of them, a girl whose name Elia can never remember. “He’s just so  _handsome_.”

Elia follows the girl’s nod and sees Rhaegar and Arthur in amicable conversation. “Yes, my husband is quite—”

“Not him,” says another one of the girls. “Well, yes, him too, but no—the Sword of the Morning. Those pretty eyes, and that  _accent_ , ’tis a shame he’s one of the honorable ones. Begging your pardon, Lady Ashara.”

Whatever Ashara’s reply is, Elia doesn’t hear it. When she’d thought the chatter was about Rhaegar, she had thought it entertaining, but now all traces of levity vanish. “Ser Arthur Dayne is a Kingsguard,” she snaps. “You ought to be ashamed of your behavior.”

The first girl who’d spoken bows her head. “Yes, Your Grace. It was only in jest.”

 _I don’t care_ , Elia seethes.  _Arthur’s mine, not yours._

Except...he’s  _not_  hers. Not anymore. It’s getting harder and harder to remember that, especially with it being _his_ babe that grows in her belly. They, of course, have no idea of such a thing. No one does. No one outside of her uncle, Ashara, and Arthur himself.

“Elia,” warns Ashara when they’re well away from the group, “what was all that about?”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she sighs. “But—doesn’t it bother you? He’s your brother.”

Ashara throws her head back and laughs. “If I had a groat for every person who ogled my brother, I’d be a rich woman indeed. It’s no use to get irritated.”

_Speak for yourself._

* * *

She dwells on the incident long enough that even Rhaegar, normally as oblivious as a wall, asks her about it. She blames her mood on the pregnancy, an explanation he accepts without complaint. Following supper the next night, when Rhaegar is well on his way alone to Summerhall, Arthur pulls her behind a pillar out of sight.

“I’ve heard that voice before,” he says. “You lied. Why? What’s happened?”

“It’s nothing,” she tries. It doesn’t work; he knows her too well. “I just—I don’t like the way they look at you.”

“Who?”

“ _Everyone_ ,” Elia hisses. “All those courtiers. As if you’d abandon your vows for  _them_.”

Arthur’s confusion morphs into amusement, but he has the grace not to laugh as Ashara had. “There’s only one woman I’d abandon my vows for, you know that.”

This is rapidly becoming dangerous, here with him in the dark when there are servants still milling about. They haven’t so much as kissed since the morning of her wedding, she’d been determined not to risk that, but right now the temptation is higher than ever.

“Still,” she says. “I hate that they can look at you and talk about you like that out in the open, yet I can barely treat you as a friend. And being pregnant has just made me even more  _angry_  and  _frustrated_  and I feel like I’m going to burst.”

Arthur looks at a loss. “What can I do?”

 _Fuck me blind_ , she wants to say. Her frustration has manifested in more ways than one, and she’s uncomfortably reminded of how Mellario had been with Arianne, of how she said there was only one way to quench such feelings. She’d not known how right her goodsister was. Elia would even settle for  _Rhaegar_  at a time like this.

She doesn’t voice her desire, but it must be plastered across her face, because Arthur steps closer to her, slides his hands up her back to the laces of her dress. He doesn’t unlace it all, only enough to expose her breasts to him. He’d never cared about them being small, but lately she’s noticed him staring at them, obscenely so, and there’s no question as to why. They’ve grown significantly with her pregnancy, to where the seamstress has to let out the bust of her gowns seemingly every week, and they’re so sensitive she can only wear the softest of fabrics.

Which means it feels as though she’s been struck by lightning when Arthur bends to lavish them, the way he used to, the way she’s longed for. She comes from that alone, and again, harder, when he lifts her skirts and brings her off with his fingers. This is far,  _far_  over the line, but she’d rather cut off a limb than ask him to stop.

“Seven hells,” is all she can muster in the aftermath. She’s pleasured herself at night to thoughts of exactly this, but no fantasy could possibly compare.

Arthur laces her dress back up, much to her dismay, and begins pressing kisses along her jaw. “Let those ladies do what they will.” The deepness of his voice is almost enough to arouse her all over again. “Yours is the only siren’s call I hear.”

Her heart melts, as it always does when he says things like that, and the babe inside her kicks as though sensing her happiness. She places Arthur’s hand over the spot so he can feel it. He rests his forehead against hers, his expression one of simultaneous delight and pain.

“She’s strong, this one,” he murmurs. “Like her mother.”

“She?”

“Just a feeling.”

Everyone from the servants to the queen have been assuming—hoping—she carries a boy, a precious silver heir for Rhaegar, but Arthur’s words have instead put in her mind the image of a laughing little princess with skin of copper and eyes of the deepest violet. She can think of nothing more perfect.

“A girl then,” she smiles. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s not treason if there’s no penetration, ya feel? ;)


	24. arthur confesses at the TOJ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: How about Arthur confessing to rhaegar that he love his wife at toj.
> 
> Incorporates [this theory](https://samwpmarleau.tumblr.com/post/171648562564/thats-depressingly-plausible) by @athena-nygma.

It has been a balm to his soul, being back in his homeland. Even though the circumstances aren’t ideal—being away from Elia, hiding out in this abandoned tower on an ancient old tract of Dayne land, waiting for the ravens Rhaegar had sent to be received so Lady Lyanna’s trip across the Narrow Sea would be unhindered—feeling the relentless Dornish sun on his skin is invigorating. He and Oswell share a room in the tower, but more often than not, Arthur has slept out of doors, staring up at the constellations his mother had taught him as a child.

There is amusement to be found during the days, too, plenty of it. Where Arthur feels born anew, his companions have suffered, and it has fallen to him to detail the finer points of living in the desert mountains.

Then the message arrives, and Arthur’s tenative peace comes crashing down.

Brandon and Rickard Stark, murdered at Aerys’s hand.

He cannot understand how it could have happened. Rhaegar had told him he sent a letter of explanation to both his mother the queen and Lord Rickard, and to a Braavosi merchantress who agreed to take the girl in if she agreed to help with the work.

He’d told him Lyanna had left a note of her own as well, to smooth over any of her family’s lingering worries. How could Aerys have gotten hold of Brandon and Rickard to begin with? Why? What does this mean for the realm?

Aerys slaughtering the Lord of Winterfell and his heir is horrific enough, but most of all it brings paralyzing worry. Elia is the only vestige of Rhaegar left within the king’s grasp—what if he were to decide she played a part in Rhaegar’s actions? He had never been quiet about his hatred of her heritage.

And Rhaenys…

 _She smells Dornish_ , the king had said when Rhaegar presented her. A babe scarcely a month old, yet he’d refused to even touch her. Aerys would not hesitate to harm her either, or little Aegon. What must Elia think of him? He’d told her he’d be back in short order, that all he needed to do was help get Lyanna on her way.

The depth of his own utter  _stupidity_  is slow to come to him, but when it does, it’s dizzying. Had he not known Rhaegar’s obsession with the prophecy? How could he not have foreseen all this? How could he have trusted that Rhaegar did indeed leave a note? How could he not have guessed Brandon Stark would do something rash, or that Aerys would retaliate?

How could he have left Elia at all, even for what he thought was a good cause?

Love is blind, they say, and for more than a decade he’s loved Rhaegar as a brother. Yet if he’d had a lick of sense, he’d not have been so  _fucking obtuse_. What kind of Kingsguard is he? What kind of  _knight_?

He should have left long ago—nay, he shouldn’t have left in the first place—but better late than never.

He convenes with Rhaegar and Oswell in what has served as a training yard, the better to be out of Lyanna’s earshot, and announces his intentions. There are plenty of issues he has with Rhaegar’s running of the place, namely the refusal to inform the northern girl of what happened to her family and the insidious  _lies_ , but it is not Lyanna who is within Aerys’s reach. There would be time later to fix Rhaegar’s errors.

“I’ll be gone within the hour,” says Arthur. “I just have to ready the supplies.”

Oswell poses no objection, even offers to help him saddle his horse, but Rhaegar does nothing of the sort.

“Why?”

“Why?” Arthur hadn’t expected to be met by any resistance. “They’re in danger.”

“I’m quite certain they’re not,” says Rhaegar, with the same placid confidence as when he speaks of the prophecy. “Even if I were to send one of you, why not Ser Oswell? He is of prodigious skill and has been a Kingsguard far longer.”

 _Because Oswell doesn’t care about them the way I do_ , he thinks but does not say. _No one does. I would cut down the king himself if he got in my way. Can you say the same, Oswell?_

“Because…I was on Dragonstone, I know it better,” says Arthur. “I would be more trusted by the princess and her guards than—”

“Ah,” Rhaegar interrupts, “and so we’ve come to it.  _The princess._ ”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you do. I want to hear you say it.” There is a calculating coldness in Rhaegar’s eyes. Arthur’s seen that look before, but never had it been directed at  _him_.

His heart stops in fear.

_He knows. Somehow, he knows._

Arthur feigns ignorance. “Hear me say what?”

“It took me a long time to figure it out,” says Rhaegar. “Elia seemed so much happier that first time I returned from Summerhall than before I left, I thought that was because of me. Perhaps the way you became so formal around her should have been my first clue. It was little things after that, but I didn’t put it all together until Harrenhal.”

Despite the very real danger he’s in—the danger  _Elia’s_  in—the mention of Harrenhal sends Arthur’s irritation spiking anew. Just the  _memory_  of what Rhaegar had done rankles.

“All these years, I thought you were a man without anger,” Rhaegar continues. “But I saw it after the joust. I never did ask where you went.”

He’s right. Of course, he’s right. Rhaegar had told him he planned on honoring Lyanna for her gallantry as the mystery knight, but he’d never  _dreamed_  that would mean he’d crown the girl over his own wife. If he had, he would have never let Rhaegar anywhere near victory, he’d have won the joust himself like he had so many others.

Oh, how he had thundered. He hadn’t been able to rein himself in enough to even attend the feast that night. Having to watch as people whispered about the  _romance_  and how  _excellently_  their silver prince had ridden, having to watch Elia’s suffering, it would have been too much. And so, he’d saddled up Ny Sar and set her into a gallop, riding for hours before he’d simmered down enough to return.

Simmered, not extinguished.

Fueled by resentment, he’d planned on secreting himself into Elia’s room and kissing her until their lips were bruised, showing her in all the ways he knew how that it was Rhaegar and Rhaegar alone who passed her over, that the crown should have been hers. Not only because as Rhaegar’s wife it was hers by rights, but because she was by far the most beautiful of the women in attendance.

What he’d forgotten was that Ser Gerold had been assigned to guard outside her chambers that night, and Arthur certainly had no valid reasons for wanting to see her behind closed doors. Ser Gerold had appraised him inscrutably, no doubt wondering why he was out of his armor and drenched in sweat, and, more importantly, why he would be coming by Elia’s room so late.

“As you were,” Ser Gerold had said. At once a clear dismissal and a willful acknowledgement to  _not_  acknowledge Arthur’s intentions.

But Rhaegar hadn’t known any of that. By his own admission only moments ago, he knew nothing of it.

“I…went for a walk,” Arthur replies, which is partially true. He’d walked to the stables. “Nothing more.”

“You are a good liar, old friend. I hadn’t realized quite how good, not until I knew what to look for.”

“Sire,” Oswell interjects finally, “I don’t think this is necessary. Arthur has—”

“I will deem what is or is not necessary, Oswell.” Rhaegar turns back to Arthur, his voice dangerously quiet. “Say it. Confess your treason.”

“ _You_  speak of treason? You, who orchestrated all this? I shouldn’t just leave, I should take that girl with me. You don’t intend to send her to Braavos, do you?”

_“Say it.”_

He’s not cornered, not truly. A childhood spent thick as thieves with Oberyn and a squireship spent learning Lewyn’s craftiness means he could talk his way out of this. Rhaegar may have noticed something off, but clearly lacks any tangible proof. He hasn’t caught on about Rhaenys, thank the gods. He could use Oswell, too; his brother in white doesn’t seem keen to see him burn, not yet anyway, and that could be helpful.

And yet…it’s been exhausting, keeping this secret, and it’s been torturous having to sit by while Elia endures insult after insult. He knows she thinks little and less of other people’s opinions, and he reassures her with every stolen moment, but nonetheless he hates it. If confessing means that anguish can stop, if it means he can leave this tower and go to her, then he’ll do it.

“I love her,” he says. “We’re in love. We always have been.”

“‘Always’? She’s only been my wife for two years.”

“My youth was spent in Sunspear, or don’t you remember?” Now that he’s given voice to what’s been hidden in his heart these many long years, everything comes out in a tirade. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. You’ve always ignored that. You’ve thought of me as a knight, as a friend, as a brother, but never as a Dornishman. Not for more than a fleeting instant. You think it absurd that I would love her, I see it in your face. You expected me to be like all of you northerners, who see only her limitations, but I see  _her_. My only shame is that I didn’t run away with her when I had the bloody chance.”

From the mild shock in Rhaegar’s expression, he hadn’t anticipated such a diatribe. Arthur glances at Oswell, who’s staring uncomfortably at the sand beneath his feet, his hand resting rigid on the pommel of his sword. Oswell doesn’t seem particularly surprised, which  _is_  a surprise. Lewyn knew, of course, but who of the others had suspected?

He supposes it doesn’t matter now.

“They call you the greatest knight who ever lived,” says Rhaegar. “The most  _chivalrous_ , the most  _loyal_ , the most  _honorable_. I thought you were exactly that. In the end, you’re as bad as the rest.” There’s a cruel sneer to his mouth that puts Arthur’s teeth on edge. “Or perhaps I should have seen it coming. Everyone knows of Prince Lewyn’s paramour, perhaps I should have expected it from you. As you graciously reminded me, you, too, are Dornish.”

For a moment, he thinks he misheard. Rhaegar had never dwelled on where Arthur is from, true, but he hadn’t participated in the crass behaviors of other men either, had never sung the bawdy taunts or laughed when the courtiers made their jokes. But there is no reading something in Rhaegar other than disdain now.

 _He means it_ , Arthur realizes.  _He means every word._

Overcome with fury and  _hurt_ , he lunges forward and slams his fist into Rhaegar’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.

“You unimaginable bastard,” Arthur seethes from above him. “I should have seen your folly in the first place. I refuse to be a part of this charade any longer.”

Rhaegar spits out a mouthful of blood. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“How do you intend to stop me? You’re no match for me with a sword, and nor is Oswell.”

“Mayhaps not,” Rhaegar agrees. “But when this incident with the Starks is dealt with, I shall take my father’s place on the throne. I can unmake you. I can ensure you never step foot in the crownlands again.”

“I don’t care what you do to me.”

“To Elia then?” Arthur goes still. “I have my heir. What value is Elia to me now?”

Arthur rushes for him again, but Oswell reacts in time and yanks him away. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“That rather depends on you, doesn’t it?”

“This is madness,” says Arthur, more to Oswell than to Rhaegar. But Arthur knows he will find no ally here. Oswell had closed his eyes to Aerys’s atrocities for decades before Arthur ever took up the cloak. He probably wouldn’t intervene even if Rhaegar had a dagger to Elia’s throat.

Arthur feels hollow. He had chosen Rhaegar’s side to escape Aerys’s tyranny, and instead things are worse than they ever were. Maybe he could make a run for it, maybe he could make it past Rhaegar and Oswell and up the Pass. Maybe he could even make it to a port to go to Dragonstone. But then what? Rhaegar hadn’t left any note. Rhaegar hadn’t explained anything to  _anyone_.

Everyone in the entire realm must curse Arthur’s name as much as they curse Rhaegar’s, and he doesn’t have the amount of coin it would take to bribe someone’s scruples away. Not without going to Starfall, but he’s not about to put his family at risk. There would be no safe haven anywhere for him. No captain would take him, no innkeeper would house him, his very life is in Rhaegar’s hands.

He has no choice.

_Forgive me, Elia. I love you._

In wordless surrender, Arthur slowly unstraps Dawn from his back and tosses the sword at Rhaegar’s feet.


	25. one last golden day of peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companion fic to @poesiariptide's lovely art [here](http://poesiariptide.tumblr.com/post/172214791194/a-sun-and-a-falling-star-alternative-title).

The gods taunt her with a perfect day. The sun is as bright as ever but the heat only temperate, and a faint breeze rustles the citrus trees, spreading the scent of oranges and lemons across the courtyard. The tranquility of the gurgling fountains is broken only by Rhaenys’s delighted splashes. Elia keeps one eye on her daughter, sternly reminding her every few minutes not to venture out of the shallow end. Aegon she keeps on her knee, smiling at how awed he is by the water and doing her best to stop him from batting off his hat.

It’s hard to believe she’s already spent a fortnight here, and that at daybreak they would be departing once more for King’s Landing. After that, who knows how long it would be before she could visit home again? Here in the Water Gardens it’s been so easy to envision that this is how it would have been had things been different. Had things been different, this would be her life. A princess but not a ruler, she could spend the rest of her days in this paradise, her children growing up in these pools with nary a care in the world. She would take that over an ugly iron chair in a heartbeat.

She feels him before she sees him, attuned as much to his soul as she is to her own. He sits down behind her in the pool, dressed in traditional Dornish linen. He hasn’t worn his Kingsguard armor or even brandished Dawn since they arrived; there has been no need for either within these marble walls.

“You look happy,” he says, wrapping his arms around her middle. This peace, too, would be broken tomorrow, at least in public.

She leans her head back to rest against his chest. “I am. I wish we could stay here forever. You, me, and the children, like it should have been.”

His hands slide up to just beneath her breasts, teasing. “I’m not sure I could content myself with just two.”

“Oh? How many, then?”

Arthur gently tilts her head to kiss her, slow and sweet. “As many as you’d like.”

Warmth coils low in her belly, new and achingly familiar all at once. During her marriage she had been unwilling to risk being with him the way she so desired, but she’s since made up for lost time. She is a widow now, and this is perhaps the one place in the realm where there are no spies to be found, especially with the Spider having met his comeuppance at her command. Oberyn is her Master of Whispers, Oberyn and his little nest of snakes.

“That sounds perfect.” She becomes lost in Arthur’s gaze and feels his hands suggestively tighten around her waist. “Later,” she laughs. “Let the children have their fun first.”

He wages a playful protest but consents, and for another hour they enjoy watching Rhaenys playact her make-believe before finally she tires herself out. Arthur gathers her up while Elia tries to straighten Aegon’s askew hat without waking him. They put them both down for a nap in the nursery, then she eagerly leads Arthur to her bedchamber.

“Make me forget,” she tells him. “Make me forget that this is our last night.”

His smirk is one of promise, and he kicks the door shut behind them.


	26. arthur makes it back to king's landing in time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> epeolxtry asked: Prompt; Arthur making it back in time to Elia and the kids
> 
> AU follow up to [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12831045/chapters/32316900).

They’re keeping things from him. He knows they’ve been getting news, but they’ve shared none of it with him. He’s nearly as clueless about what’s going on as Lyanna is. Every day he questions whether he’s doing the right thing by not divulging to her that her father and brother are dead, if he’s as bad as Rhaegar for it. But then, would it be any better to tell her and cause her such grief when neither of them can do anything about it? Rhaegar won’t let her go, he knows that, Rhaegar won’t even let  _him_  go. Is it not kinder to keep the truth from her for a while longer?

Each time he looks at her, it hits him how atrociously, nauseatingly  _young_  she is. At only five-and-ten, she’s scarcely more than a child, and young enough to be his niece. For that matter, she’s almost young enough to be his  _daughter_.

He remembers when he was that age. Freshly knighted, Dawn secure in the Sword Hall at Starfall awaiting its next wielder. He’d thought he could marry Elia then, have a family with her, grow old with her, build a  _life_  with her. They were merely dreams at the time; he’d not even asked the Princess for her hand yet.

There’s still joy in Lyanna, still innocence, still a refusal to accept the world she lives in. No, he can’t bring himself to shatter her. He does wonder, though, if she’s noticed the rift between him and Rhaegar. He can’t so much as glance at the prince without feeling rage. The only thing stopping him from acting on it is the threat Rhaegar had made so many months ago.

 _To Elia then?_  he’d asked. _I have my heir. What value is Elia to me now?_

Part of him wants to believe Rhaegar wouldn’t hurt her. That he wouldn’t punish her for being loved. The Rhaegar he’d been friends with for half his life wouldn’t dream of it. But he’s also seen how far Rhaegar would go for the prophecy, and  _that_  man Arthur can’t be so sure of. He can’t risk it. He won’t.

And so here he’s sat, watching the sun rise and set, growing more despondent by the hour. It’s a chore to move, a chore to eat, a chore to face the morning, a chore to  _breathe_. He plays out fantasies in his head to stop himself from going mad. Little things: lifting Rhaenys up onto his shoulders so she can declare him a mighty dragon and herself a dragonrider high above the clouds; Elia’s laugh, unrestrained and melodious as Aegon takes his first steps; Ashara racing Oberyn on horseback down the beach; all of them happy and free in Dorne where they belong.

Oswell worries for him. He can see it in his weathered face when Arthur brushes off his offers of company or sparring. Lyanna, too, he reckons; she keeps asking him if she can hold Dawn or if he can regale her with Dornish legends, but the thought of doing so, of acting like nothing’s amiss, is inconceivable.

Rhaegar doesn’t notice any of it, or else simply doesn’t care.

Two hundred and seventy-four days he’s been here. Two hundred and seventy-four days that could have been spent at Elia’s side, at Rhaenys’s. Aegon would have spoken his first word by now. Ashara’s babe should be speaking soon, too. He’s an uncle, and he doesn’t even know if it’s to a boy or girl. She’d only been a few moons along when he left.

He’s missed  _so much_  and he doesn’t have any clue when this lunacy will stop, when he’ll be allowed to go back. Rhaegar hasn’t made a single move towards Lyanna, nothing more than playing her a song every now and then and effortlessly evading her questions of when they would board the ship bound for Essos.

Of course, Rhaegar may  _never_  let him go back. Perhaps he would not be content with just threatening to harm Elia if Arthur stepped out of line, perhaps he would do exactly as he warned: strip Arthur of his cloak and prohibit him from setting foot within a hundred miles of her.

He paces the perimeter of the tower while the others are fast asleep, ostensibly keeping watch for—what? No one knows they’re here, and most days he and Oswell don’t bother wearing their armor, let alone remain on high alert.

Oswell emerges from the base to relieve him, but it’s far sooner than usual. “You’re early,” Arthur remarks. “I’ve several hours yet.”

“If I weren’t, this might not work.” Arthur raises an eyebrow, confused, and quietly Oswell continues, “Something’s happened. His Grace has…he’s commanded Princess Elia and the children to King’s Landing.”

Arthur’s breath catches in his chest. “He’s  _what_?”

“To ensure Prince Doran’s fealty, no doubt.”

_No. No, no, no, no, no, it can’t be. Anywhere but there._

Arthur wants this to be merely a particularly ill-done jape of Oswell’s, a taste of his black humor, but his expression says otherwise. Not that it makes any fucking  _difference_.

“Are you telling me this to torture me? You heard Rhaegar—I can’t leave.”

“Aye, I heard him,” says Oswell. He studies the moon for a moment, then sighs. “Go, Arthur. Protect her.”

“Why are you doing this?” Arthur can’t help but ask. “Is this a trick?”

“No trick. It was one thing when they were safe on Dragonstone, but this is quite another.”

“What about you?” Arthur asks. “Rhaegar won’t be pleased.”

“Insubordinate as always, you are,” Oswell grumbles. “I’m not a green boy, I can handle things here. Just  _go_ , Arthur.” He taps his cheekbone and grimaces. “Make it look good.”

Oswell doesn’t go down on the first try; he was chosen for the Kingsguard for a reason, and it’s not because he can’t take a punch. The second blow does render him unconscious, and Arthur lays him gently on the ground.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He glances up at the tower and sees no candlelight from the window to indicate Rhaegar was roused by the noise. Without further delay, he packs what he can into his horse’s saddlebags, mounts up, and canters towards the mountain path, not once looking back.

* * *

The journey isn’t easy, and he’d be lying if he said it’s without casualties. Loyalists or rebel soldiers, he doesn’t stick around to find out. Maybe they didn’t deserve to die at his hand, or maybe they’ve raped a dozen stormlander women and he’s done the realm a favor, but frankly he doesn’t give a damn. His only concern is for Elia and the children, and he’d do just about anything to get to them.

Anger and fear fuel him through most of his travels, but eventually the breakneck pace he sets for himself begins to wear him down. Ny Sar does not seem to share his fatigue, so finely bred of a sand steed is she, but she deserves a rest, too. Rarely does he allow himself to sleep for more than a few hours here and there. Even without his armor, he knows full well he’s one of the most recognizable people in the land, especially were anyone to get close enough to discern the color of his eyes or that the sword slung across his back is no ordinary weapon.

He cautiously relinquishes his guard when he crosses the boundary into the kingswood, and sure enough, within half a day a gaggle of villagers steps across his path. They determine his identity in moments. Better them, he reasons, than the Brotherhood. Simon Toyne and the Smiling Knight are long dead, but many of the others in their band are not, and they could have risen up once more. Yet they clearly haven’t, not with the villagers approaching him unmolested and lacking the terror that had been so evident when he first began his mission against the outlaws. Had he the strength to be prideful, he’d be rather self-satisfied that his eradication of them has stood.

“Ser Arthur,” greets an elder he knows only as One-Hand. Arthur spies a glint of mistrust in the man’s rheumy eyes, but there’s nothing to be done for it.

“Please,” says Arthur, his voice gruff from disuse, “I request shelter.”

“The prince is not with you,” One-Hand observes.

“No.” He doesn’t explain any further. How can he, without alerting them to the tower’s location or confessing why he’d left? “Will you lend me a bed for the night and water for my horse? I need not impose upon you for more than that.”

One-Hand confers wordlessly with the rest of the group, and then nods. “We have not forgotten that we would still be starved and paying coin to the Brotherhood if not for you,” he says. “We will shelter you.”

They do exactly that, providing him with hot soup and a hunk of venison, and the villagers’ children find great joy in feeding apples to Ny Sar and giggling at the way she nudges them in appreciation as they brush out her coat.

(She doesn’t, however, much appreciate when the girls braid her mane and tail, and he manages a smile at the almost-human glare she gives him.)

Old habits die hard, and just like the campaigns he’s undertaken in the past where he’s not had the opportunity to take watches in shifts, he wakes several times during the night, his hand instantly reaching for his dagger. But true to their word, he has guest right here, and so despite the interruptions from his own paranoia, he sleeps better than he has since Rhaegar’s ultimatum.

Jenny, Old-Hand’s robust wife, opposes his decision to head out at daybreak. Her coaxing nearly works—the prospect of indulging again in their hospitality is a tempting one—but the need to move on overturns it, and he departs the village with replenished supplies. Ny Sar shakes out her braids as soon as they’re out of sight.

* * *

He remembers the route to the secret passageways as though he’d traversed them just yesterday. He doesn’t know all of the tunnels Maegor had commissioned by half, but he  _does_  know the one that leads straight into the heart of the royal apartments.

He’d once counted out the distance from end to end, and though in theory the tunnel shouldn’t take more than two hours to navigate, it feels like a lifetime. It’s helped not at all by the imminent peril that would befall him if he were to be caught.

It doesn’t matter. If he’s apprehended and executed, at least Elia would know he died trying to get to her, that he didn’t betray her. The thought of her thinking otherwise is crippling. What must it seem from where she’s standing? He’d told her he’d return shortly, but he hadn’t. He’d not sent a single raven or rider, he’d not given any sign that he objects to what Rhaegar’s doing nor that he cares that war has blackened the realm. She’d have every reason in the world to believe he’d turned traitor.

When anxiety and fatigue threaten to engulf him entirely, the tunnel veers sharply to the left, and he feels a seam in the stones. Time has made the mechanism stick, but with one hard shove, the door finally slides along its hidden track and he steps into the gaping darkness of the deepest bowels of the Holdfast.

It takes all of the energy he doesn’t have to keep his steps light and creep along at an agonizing pace to make sure he’s not spotted. Praying she’s indeed been housed in the same chambers she occupied during her short stay here before her wedding, he veritably staggers into the room. Her back is to him, her fingers in the process of undoing the sash of her bedgown, yet even this shuttered glimpse of her is like looking at the sun itself, so bright does she shine.

“Ash, I thought you’d gone to bed ages ago,” she laughs.

“I’m not Ashara.”

She turns around slowly and stares at him as though she’s seen a ghost. To be fair, he probably looks like one. He hasn’t slept in days, hasn’t had time or inclination to shave in weeks, and he knows he’s lost weight from only getting sporadic meals and traveling as much and as quickly as he did.

After being bereft of her, it’s hard to quite believe she’s not a hallucination, that he isn’t back in that godsforsaken tower. Needing to convince them both, he rushes to her, drops to one knee and takes her hands in his. He kisses them, seeking absolution, then looks up at her.

He tries to say her name but chokes on it.

She pulls him to his feet, still stricken. “This isn’t a dream?” she croaks. “You’re really here?”

“Yes.” He pulls her into a crushing embrace, drowning in her. It’s overwhelming, finally being here, and he can  _feel_  his heart begin to knit itself back together.

“Arthur,  _how_ —?”

“I didn’t want to be there, I swear it, I  _never_ —” He’s suffocating her and weeping like a child, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She holds him just as tightly.

“Shh, I know you didn’t.” He thinks she might be crying, too. “Everyone tried to tell me your loyalty was to Rhaegar, to stop being naive, to stop saying you would never betray Dorne, but I  _knew_. I knew you would never stay away from us unless you didn’t have a choice.”

He nods against her shoulder, too relieved to respond. He’d been petrified she wouldn’t believe him, that she’d think he  _wanted_  to be there, that he  _wanted_  to do Rhaegar’s bidding rather than be by her side. “I’ll never leave you again,” he vows. “Not for anything.”

“Good.” She pulls away from him just enough to see him properly. “Is that girl all right? Will Rhaegar hurt her?”

“Maybe. I don’t know anymore,” Arthur admits. “Once you and the children are safe, we can get a raven to my brother and your aunt, and they can send men to rescue her. We can return her to her family.”

“What’s left of it. The way Brandon and Lord Rickard died…”

“That’s why we have to go. Tonight.”

“How?” Elia asks. “There are guards everywhere.”

“Not  _everywhere_. We’ll leave the same way I got in, through the tunnels.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t just abandon my ladies,” she says. “Aerys would murder them in retribution the same way he murdered the Starks, and I won’t leave the queen and Viserys either. Aerys is burning men left and right these days. You know what he does to Rhaella when that happens.”

Arthur flinches. Yes, he knows. He’d never been forced to stand outside the doors, thank the gods—Gerold Hightower had seen to that. Arthur had been new to the Kingsguard when first he witnessed Aerys strike the queen, and he’d instantly stepped forward to intervene. He’d only been reprimanded by words then, for Aerys had not begun the descend into true madness, but once they were alone, Rhaella had forbidden him to interfere ever again.

 _He has no fondness for Dornishmen_ , she’d told him, her pale skin already bruising.  _And you’re so young, Ser Arthur. Don’t make me send you home to your mother as naught but bones. Please._

He’d objected, vehemently, but Rhaella must have informed the Lord Commander of his actions, for from that moment on he wasn’t ever instructed to guard her, it was only ever Rhaegar or Viserys or the king. He’d become Rhaegar’s sworn sword shortly thereafter, and only saw the queen on rare occasion, yet every day he’d wondered how he could stomach it. He may not have been witness to the abuse, but he knew  _of_  it and did nothing. The white cloak was poison, from the minute it touched his shoulders. He can hardly reconcile the man he is now from the knight he used to be.

“Very well,” he says. “But we can’t get them all out tonight, there’s no time.”

“So you’ll stay out of sight until we come up with a plan,” she says. “It will be like old times.”

He gives her a feeble smile. How often had he snuck into her room at Sunspear and had to hide when her mother unexpectedly knocked on the door? “All right. Like old times.”

“Now come. I’ve had a bath drawn for me, but you need it far more than I do.” Her nose scrunches up in distaste. “And give me your dagger so I can shave off that awful beard.”

They’re in unimaginable danger, he knows that. But merely being in Elia’s presence, her hands brushing his bare skin as she undresses him, the familiar, methodical way she slides the blade of his dagger along his jaw, he feels at ease.

Invincible.

_Home._


	27. rhaegar tries to win elia back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: prompt: rhaegar wanting elia back but she's moved on
> 
> Follow-up to [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12831045/chapters/32154837).

The doorbell rings right as she’s putting on the finishing touches of her lipstick.  _Louboutin Red_ , so says the label. A glance at the clock tells her he’s fifteen minutes early, but better that than late. Three months doesn’t technically warrant anything special, but he’d left one of his shirts here the last time he was over and  _oh_  does she want to see his face when he sees her wearing the garment and nothing else. Half a year ago, she’d have never dreamed of doing something this daring; so went the downside of being married to someone who thought “romance” meant watching a romcom every once in a blue moon.

She practically  _skips_  down the stairs and opens the door with her best (okay, her  _only_ ) come-hither smirk in place. Except it’s not Arthur standing on her stoop, and in fact it takes her a second to process exactly who it is in his place.

“What are you doing here, Rhaegar?” She crosses her arms over her chest in a show of modesty. He gives her a once-over, but she can’t tell whether he likes it or whether he thinks she looks like the devil’s own whore. “We’re divorced, in case you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” he says. He sounds almost…wounded. “I—I’ve missed you, Elia.”

“You’ve missed me,” she parrots, debating the plausibility that Rhaegar was speaking a foreign language she’d misinterpreted. “That’s rich, coming from the man who propositioned a  _freshman_.”

“I made a mistake.”

Elia laughs out loud. “A  _mistake_  is accidentally putting new jeans in a load of whites. A  _mistake_  is drinking the last of the orange juice without putting it on the shopping list. What you did was  _not_  a mistake. If you don’t believe me, I’m sure Lyanna would love to tell you herself. We meet up for lunch every Sunday, you’re welcome to join.”

“You’re right,” he says. He does look abysmal, she’ll grant him that. “You’re right, it wasn’t a mistake, I was just overwhelmed by the tour—”

“And, what, I have such a free schedule?” she retorts. “24/48s are so conducive to rest and relaxation? You think I didn’t have the opportunity to do what you did? Half the EMTs have asked me out one time or another, but silly me, I actually thought vows meant something.”

“Can’t I just have another chance?” he asks. “I’ll be better, I mean it. It won’t happen again.”

For a moment, she lets herself consider. Filled with passion it may rarely have been, but her marriage wasn’t always horrible. In the beginning, she’d have even called it good, back when she was the first person he performed his songs for, back when he would buy her favorite ice cream after she’d called him on her break sobbing about how she couldn’t save the seven-year-old victim of a car accident, back when he’d search her out after his shows. It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly it all went wrong, when the arguments began, when the music stopped. Part of her does wish that they could do everything over again.

But then she remembers the contents of the DMs he’d sent and the spell breaks. He may be serious about regretting his actions and about devoting himself to her, but she’s not going down that path again. She’s not going to let herself be  _humiliated_  again. What happens when the next pretty young thing comes across his path?

“No. Second chances are for husbands who flake on date night, not for husbands who cheat on their wives with teenagers.”

“We didn’t  _do_  anything.”

“Only because that girl has a brain between her ears! Or are you really going to claim you wouldn’t have gone through with it if she’d said yes?”

His silence speaks volumes.

“You  _had_  me, Rhaegar,” she sighs. “All of me. I was yours, til death do us part.  _I_  wasn’t the one who destroyed us, and I’m not going to be the one who sacrifices her dignity just so you can sleep better at night.”

Over Rhaegar’s shoulder she spots Arthur pulling into the driveway. He doesn’t get out of the car just yet, apparently deciding he would only make things worse, but there’s no pretending he hasn’t seen her.

 _Great_ , she thinks,  _now the surprise is ruined, too._

“So Arthur’s the reason you’re dressed like that?” Rhaegar asks with no small amount of distaste.

Bristling, she snaps, “If by that you mean he treats me like I deserve and gives me the confidence to  _want_  to wear this, then yes, he’s the reason.”

“You’ve moved on rather quickly, it seems.”

“Don’t you dare,” she seethes. “Don’t you dare come to  _my home_  and not only ask for forgiveness but try to shame me for finding happiness. My conscience is clean, and it’s not my fault that yours isn’t. Now go.”

As if sensing the escalating argument, Arthur gets out of his car and cautiously walks over to them, positioning himself in such a way that makes it clear Rhaegar would lose a limb if he made one wrong move.

“Sir,” Arthur greets calmly. He’s no longer beholden to address Rhaegar so formally, but old habits die hard.

“Elia,” says Rhaegar, ignoring him, “please. Just one more shot.”

She leans in, almost close enough to kiss. “No. And so help me, if you ever darken my doorstep again, I’ll file a restraining order.”

She doesn’t think he’ll leave, that he’ll make a final stand, but then he clenches his jaw, strides down the driveway, and gets back in his car. Elia waits until he’s around the block to look up at Arthur. “Hi.”

“What was that all about?” he asks, ushering her inside.

“He wanted me back,” she says incredulously. It’s still hard to believe. “As though our divorce was based on some frivolous disagreement. We were married for years, you’d think he’d know what my response would be.”

He kisses her forehead in commiseration, then finally takes in what she’s wearing. “Is this for me?”

His question reminds her that Rhaegar’s arrival had shot her entire planned evening to hell, and she feels angry tears well in her eyes. “This is all  _wrong_. I wanted this to be a surprise, and then  _Rhaegar_ …he’s ruined everything.”

“Elia, you look amazing.”

“No, I don’t,” she sniffles. She hadn’t even thought to wear waterproof eye makeup. “I look like a raccoon.”

“But a cute raccoon.”

His charm, for once, doesn’t work. Rhaegar’s confrontation had sapped all her poise. “Why are you with me? You could have any other girl you wanted.”

“If you want me to list all the reasons I love you, we’ll be here awhile.”

“But—wait, what?” She’s felt that way about him for years now, and they’ve been sleeping together for months, but neither of them had actually said  _that_.

He smiles the same smile that had first made her stomach flip. “I love you,” he repeats. “I love you whether you’re in my shirt or in your Snoopy pajamas. But,” he adds, seeing her tug at the hem of the shirt, embarrassed, “I admit, that outfit  _really_  does it for me.”

“Oh?”

He takes a step towards her and gently thumbs away her smudged mascara. “Very much so.”

Equal halves unadulterated love and lust are in his eyes, and it’s that more than his words that mitigates her insecurity. She takes his hands and wanders them up her thighs. “Well?”

He reverently lifts the shirt over her head and tosses it aside, and there’s something intensely seductive about him being fully clothed while she wears only her underwear made of see-through scarlet lace. That, too, ends up strewn on the floor. All thoughts of Rhaegar leave her mind as he ravishes her, as he makes her feel like nothing in life could bring him more pleasure than being with her. He fucks her against the wall, fast and rough the way she’s craved, pounding into her with such force it makes the mounted picture frames quake.

Her orgasm rips through her with matching force; she’s not yet gotten used to coming so thoroughly after each of their encounters, nor to Arthur ensuring she’s as sated as he. She could count on one hand the amount of times Rhaegar had brought her over the edge, and half of those were towards the end of her marriage when it was Arthur she was picturing anyway. She’d had to remind herself to bite her lip rather than accidentally moan the wrong name aloud.

She needn’t censor herself these days, though, and she loves that it only seems to arouse him more to look her in the eye as she cries out his name. Her orgasm brings him to his, and once he catches his breath, he sets her down on her wobbly feet and plants a lazy, artless kiss on her lips.

“I love you,” he says again, as if she’s forgotten.

“Rhaegar said the same thing once,” she mumbles. She wishes she could just let go of it all, of her ex-husband, but he’s stubbornly embedded in her head like a dragon guarding its hoard.

Arthur takes it in stride. “Then let me show you.”

She yelps in surprise as he lifts her into his arms and carries her up the stairs. They don’t leave the bedroom until dinner.


	28. elia, arthur, and the kids go into exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a 1+5 meme.
> 
> riana-one asked: Elia x Arthur She never thought exile could be so sweet

She never thought exile could be so sweet. She supposes that’s an odd thing to think, what with the Narrow Sea frothing and crashing against their ship, the exorbitant bounties that the Usurper had placed on their heads, and the fact that they would never again be able to step foot on Westeros. But oh, yes, it is sweet—she has her babes in her arms, blessedly asleep after hours of assuring them the sea would not swallow them, and... _ and _ .

Arthur, too, is fast asleep on the other side of the small cot that currently serves as their bed. She had almost witnessed his execution: it is thanks only to Ned Stark stalling the Usurper’s wrath and Arthur’s knowledge of the passageways through the city that they are on this ship at all.

Rhaenys and Aegon between them, Elia entwines her hand with his and finally lets herself rest.


	29. arthur refuses to go with rhaegar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a 1+5 meme.
> 
> 1nsaankahanhai-bkr asked: "Take care of my sister." Oberyn and Arthur. Please.

“Take care of my sister.”

It’s been over a decade since Oberyn had said those words to him, back when Arthur had confessed his plan to ask the Princess for Elia’s hand. He’d utterly failed since: he’d broken her heart when he joined the Kingsguard, he hadn’t intervened when her marriage was announced, he hadn’t won Lord Whent’s tourney that would have spared her public humiliation.

He’s had enough of broken promises.

When Rhaegar asks—no,  _tells—_ him to accompany him to the riverlands to steal away with Lady Lyanna, he has but one thing to say.

“No.”


	30. arthur's reassurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a three-sentence meme.
> 
> Anon asked: "You are safe princess" for Elia x arthur.

She feels guilty that she can’t fall asleep without hearing his steady reassurance, but even halfway across the Narrow Sea as they are, a nondescript shelter waiting for them on the other side, even with Rhaenys and Aegon sound asleep...she’s still deathly afraid that something will go wrong.

It isn’t until they’ve taken up residence and come to terms with being fugitives that he finally breaks; she rouses from her slumber to find him hunched over on his cot, head in his hands.

She sits quietly at his side, rests her chin on his shoulder, and whispers, “You are safe.”


	31. soulmates au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a number AU meme.
> 
> @amaatii asked: 1 Arthur/Elia

_She tries to fight off the massive brute of a man when he thunders into her chambers, for her children more than for herself, even though she knows it’s futile. And it is futile in the end _—_ a mother’s love can do many things, but send a mountain crumbling to its feet is not one of them._

_Rhaenys’s shrieks from the floor above and Aegon’s unearthly silence make for a discordant symphony with her own agony, feeling as though she’s being ripped in two._

_She screams his name, her lover’s name, as if he could possibly hear her, save her. It does no good, of course, and finally, blessedly, it ends._

_* * *_

_The pierce of the arrow and the sting of the poison are unpleasant, but hardly a pinch compared to the feeling of a blade through the heart that day a fortnight ago. The news, the confirmation, had arrived only recently, but he’d already known what happened. In his years as a knight and as a Kingsguard he’s endured more wounds than he cares to count, several even that have threatened his life, yet none had been so tormenting as that day._

_Letting himself be killed is perhaps a dishonorable death, perhaps a coward’s way out _—_ except, is it any less dishonorable to slaughter young Eddard Stark and Howland Reed, cutting short their already short lives, leaving their new wives widows and their babes without fathers?—but the thought of living while the three he loves most in the world are dead is a prospect he cannot bear._

_And so he lets the crannogman take his life, and moments later his princess welcomes him with open arms._

* * *

Elisa has always been drawn to this museum, ever since she was in grade school and came here on a class field trip. Most of the other kids had wanted to see the dinosaur skeletons or cave paintings or old spears, but she’d loved most the exhibit that detailed the history and culture of her ancestors who had traversed these lands long ago when the territory was known as Dorne. The way they had never been conquered, how their technology and social ideals were ages ahead of everyone else’s, the way they founded thriving cities in the blazing desert, it fascinated her.

It’s why she ended up getting her degree in anthropology, and the reason she’d earned a promotion to curator last year. She delights in educating people about the past and finds something new to become engrossed in on regular occasion. Cataloguing new finds is as therapeutic to her as gardening is for others.

She hasn’t quite mastered their ancient Rhoynish language, for it had fallen out of use at the onset of Dorne’s Golden Age and only a few texts survived the purges and plundering over the years, but she’s passable enough to get through what manuscripts there are.

One of her favorite antiquities is a woman’s necklace made of fine silver and inlaid with amethysts. It’s not in as good of condition as many other pieces, the silver half-tarnished, the amethysts chipped, and the clasp broken.

Nevertheless, for as unremarkable as it may be now, it must have been beautiful once. It almost resembles an old sword they also have on display, though that has held up much better, the blade itself miraculously as sharp as the day it was forged. Despite being discovered only shortly after her curatorship began, it’s already one of their most popular pieces in the entire museum. It  _is_  extraordinary, she won’t dispute that; she had done the appraisal herself and led the restoration efforts, and hadn’t seen anything quite like it before or since.

Still, she spends more time with the necklace, which generally sits quiet and under-appreciated in favor of the crown jewels or weapons, and more than once the board had discussed taking it off display completely, but she had successfully dissuaded them—for now.

As such, it’s ever a pleasant surprise when she finds a customer studying it, and so when her daily rounds take her to the Dorne exhibit, she walks up to the man assessing it.

“Beautiful, don’t you think?” she asks. “It’s my favorite piece.”

“Yeah, it’s very—” He turns to face her, and she’s struck with…something. He’s handsome, and he’s not usually the type of clientele that would be admiring a necklace, but that’s not it. A frown furrows his brow, same as hers. “I—have we met?”

It could almost be a line, if she hadn’t been wondering the same thing. But she’s certain she’s never seen him before. “No, I don’t think so. I’m the curator here, perhaps you’ve seen me in the paper or somewhere. I’ve done a few interviews.”

“Yes, I suppose that must be it,” he says. He clears his throat and asks, “So…what can you tell me about this?”

She’s grateful for the question, the better to not dwell on the sense of déjà vu; she knows the necklace better than the back of her own hand. “Well, we’ve found it hard to date,” she begins. “The science behind the Rhoynar’s metalwork has been lost, so we can’t use traditional methods of dating it, but my best estimate is sometime around the thirteenth century or so. There are some pockets of amethyst in the central mountains, but likely this came from the west, as we’ve found remnants of old silver mines there as well, which aren’t found elsewhere.”

“Who do you think it belonged to?”

“That’s a question I’ve asked myself many times,” she says. “It’s a simple design, not something that matches really any of the royal designs of the time, but the quality of the silver and the presence of amethyst would be much too expensive for a common peasant. The conundrum is that it was found in a cache that had almost exclusively royal antiquities, so it also seems unlikely it would have fallen in there by mistake.”

“Could it have been a gift?” he asks, gaze returning to the necklace. “Maybe it wasn’t some royal commission, maybe it was for someone in particular. Maybe it was personal.”

“Could be,” she replies. “We’ll probably never know. That’s one of the frustrating things about this field, unfortunately.”

“What about the sword over there? I was going to look at it, but it seems as popular as the Hope Diamond.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely our prize exhibit,” she says. “We can’t say much definitively about that either. The metal is most unusual. Our metallurgy team was able to identify it as meteorite steel, but hasn’t yet figured out how it’s stayed in such good condition over several millennia when every other sword of the time has deteriorated. The pommel is inlaid with fine silver filigree and amethyst, a bit like the necklace here. Probably they originated from the same place and just happened to end up a few hundred miles from each other.”

The PA system crackles on through the speakers up above, the automated announcement declaring that the museum will be closing in five minutes. She finds herself oddly regretful.

“Guess that’s my cue,” says the man. “Thank you for the information, Miss…?”

“Elisa. And you are?”

“Art,” he replies. “It’s been a pleasure.”

He holds out his hand, and she goes to shake it. But as soon as skin touches skin, the air is knocked from her lungs in a rush. Images flash through her head of a life that’s not hers, moments she doesn’t recognize, people she can’t place.

They come and go too quickly for her to make them out very well, yet their impact and ferocity leave her reeling. Love and pain and fear and regret and happiness and death and—

As quickly as the images had begun, they stop, and she looks up at Art, to see him staggering backwards, clearly hit as much as she’d been with the images. The  _memories_. For as overcome as he is, Art’s eyes never leave hers.

No…not Art.

The name, his real name, comes to her suddenly, unexpectedly, charged as a bolt of lightning. Blessed as a prayer.

_“Arthur.”_


End file.
